Broken Utterly!
by Hippothestrowl
Summary: The continuous barrage of criticism and cruelty by the Dursleys utterly destroys baby Harry's will, initiative, and self-belief, turning him into a mental slave and completely suppressing his magic. Only Dumbledore's wise counsel and loving care can save him. So no chance then. Unless a smart friend can find a way into his heart and broken mind...
1. The Terrifying New World

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**Broken Utterly!**

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**Chapter 1**

**The Terrifying New World**

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The Monster Speaks

A brutal storm was rattling the frail walls of a little hut perched on a rock out at sea.

_BOOM! ... CRASH!_

The shack door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening thud landed flat on the floor. A giant of a man was standing in the doorway, his face almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard.

_Boy_, shivering in thin rags on the floor, squealed in terror and tried to wriggle behind the moth-eaten sofa upon which his cousin Dudley Dursley had been sleeping. _Boy's_ uncle blustered in from the adjoining room brandishing a shotgun but the huge visitor simply ignored him and pulled a squashed-up box from his pocket.

The monster spoke, but _Boy_ struggled to understand his curious way of speaking: "Got summat fer yeh, _Hurry_. I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste alright."

From around the edge of the sofa, _Boy_ screwed up his eyes – though he could discern only a _huge_ fuzzy shape holding out a _small_ fuzzy shape.

"Chocolate cake," explained the man, tilting the box forward as he opened it, "fer yeh birthday."

"_Uh. Uh,_" grunted _Boy_, nervously looking to where he could hear his Uncle Vernon growling.

"The boy doesn't eat cake," snorted Vernon, "especially from strangers who intrude illegally. Who are you?"

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," said the giant, nodding at the boy's Aunt Petunia behind her husband before he turned back to the boy shivering, half-concealed behind the sofa. "Got yer letter – _Hurry_." He held out a yellowish envelope, widening his tiny black, beetle-like eyes to encourage him to take it, but the boy was shaking his head.

"Well, open it then," urged the big man, clomping forward to thrust it into _Boy's_ hands.

With trembling shoulders, _Boy_ cowered over to his uncle and offered him the unopened packet.

Hagrid took a step forward. "What yeh doin', _Hurry?_ It's yer Hogwarts letter!"

Petunia muttered something in her husband's ear which might have been, "_rid of him ... for a year._"

"Open it, boy!" ordered his uncle.

Cringing back, _Boy's_ fingers shook uncontrollably as he tried to obey. A letter fell out of the envelope onto the mangy, infested rug on which _Boy_ had lain.

"Idiot freak!" shouted Vernon, raising his fist.

"Now see 'ere, Dursley!" bellowed Hagrid, but _Boy_ was grovelling on his knees trying to unfold the letter amidst the damp and dust. He squinted as hard as he could at the meaningless arrangement of blurred squiggles for a few seconds then looked up timidly to Vernon for his next command.

"Right, he's seen it! Satisfied? Now clear off, whoever you are!" cried Vernon.

"Oh, go boil yer head, yeh great prune!" bellowed Hagrid, turning to _Boy_ with a more kindly expression. "It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow. Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to _Boy_, tumbling him over. "You can kip under that. Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a small owl and a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

The boy recoiled and scrabbled back around the settee; he was used to enduring cold, but never creeping, crawling, flapping creatures that he couldn't see properly with his dreadful eyesight. He shuddered and hugged his flimsy tatters as tightly as possible around himself as the sofa creaked and sagged under Hagrid's weight.

"Night, _Hurry_. Pleasant dreams."

But as Hagrid began snoring, there could be no dreams of any kind for _Boy_. He lay awake in fear of the morrow, rubbing his bare feet against one another to fend off the numbing cold. Lots to do? Go to town? Books? What did it all mean? Didn't the big man know he was abnormal and could no more read hazy squiggles than eat cake like a real person!

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Chaotically Confused

_Boy's_ visit to Diagon Alley was a terrifying one. He clung to Hagrid's sleeve and peeped around fearfully, longing to return to the safe confines of his tiny cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys' home. Normally he was allowed to empty his bucket every week, but there'd been that bad time when he'd been sealed in for months with crusts and tins and darkness. The black crawling fear had broken him, though halfway he'd found a quasi-state of minimal hurt where he could hug himself and rock back and forth and grow to love his confinement in a sick, perverse kind of way, free of external terrors. But there was no escaping the confusing shapes, sounds, and smells that milled around him in the Alley. "Get yer cauldron 'ere!" – "Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce!" – "Look, new Nimbus Two Thousand – fastest ever!"

Hazily he discerned the disfigured forms of little goblin-like men that could talk, was given books he could not read, and made to wear strange clothing that flapped loosely around him. Alien aromas assailed his nostrils. Cracks, pops, and curious words followed by coloured flashes preceded further unearthly noises and movements; if this had been nighttime then all these effects would have definitely felt spooky, otherworldly. Was he surrounded by an extra-terrestrial invasion? He shuddered.

"Excited, eh, _Hurry?"_ said the giant man. "But a word o' caution: that was Knockturn Alley we just passed – dodgy place to be avoided even on a bright morning such as this – think I just seen Macnair skulking down there, matter o' fact. Executes creatures now for the Ministry, but at one time he– ah! This 'ere's Ollivanders where you'll get a wand. You go in while I fetch yer owl. Go on now."

_Boy_ stared after the big man. _Get what?_ But he'd been given an order and was conditioned to obey. Tentatively he pushed open the shop door to which Hagrid had led him...

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A Shocking Experience

"Ah yes," said a mysterious figure from the gloom, "I wondered when I'd be seeing you... Harry Potter."

_Boy_ staggered back into the door and the little bell tinkled above him again, startling the nervous boy anew. His eyesight was dreadful, but he could have sworn there were no other customers in the shop. _Who's he speaking to?_ Years of knocks and bruises compelled him to wait his turn lest he be beaten, burnt, or broken.

The man moved closer – so close that there could be no doubt as to whom he was talking. _Boy_ shrivelled before his gaze. Those luminous silvery eyes were a bit creepy in the shop's gloom. The shopkeeper pulled a long tape measure out of his pocket which to _Boy_ looked like a squirming snake. "Which is your wand arm?"

_Boy_ gulped; blurry, moving creatures were scary, and there was that 'w' word again.

"Which hand do you write with?" barked the strange old man.

_Boy_ gnawed rapidly on his lower lip. He'd seen normal people write of course. Did this man not yet know he wasn't normal? What had Hagrid called the store? _Olly Vanders?_

The tape measure fell to the floor. The eyes did not blink. When he next spoke, the voice was soft, the tone sinister and sly. "Pick that up for me, would you?"

Relieved to be given an order he understood and believed he might carry out, _Boy_ leapt to obey. Though frightened, he chased the writhing, wriggling tape around the shop floor twice before pinning it down and hurrying back to offer it up, praying it would not bite him or that he'd not taken too long and might get his ears boxed.

"So... right-handed then... Try this one Mr Potter." Ollivander held out a dark stick-like shape which _Boy_ cautiously took.

The boy squinted intently. Very close up he could see a little better. The stick was a smooth black rod like a... like a magician's wand! He blinked. Was this a magic trick shop?

"Well, give it a wave," demanded Ollivander, snapping _Boy_ out of his reverie and causing the lad's reflexive jerk to limply flip the wand across the shop where it clattered into a corner.

"Clearly not..." said Ollivander, who went to search for a more suitable wand.

Twenty minutes of trying later, a few sparks fizzled out of _Boy's_ wand and he dropped it in fright. His cousin had routinely scorched him with a gaslighter from the age of three by ordering him to hold the wrong end while forced to trigger it with his other hand.

"_That one might have to do..._" muttered Ollivander as the doorbell tinkled and Hagrid was silhouetted there, holding up a caged creature with huge, terrifying eyes that stared directly at _Boy_ while fluttering and flapping its ghostly-pale wings.

"_uh – uh – uh – uh!"_ _Boy_ ran behind the counter and cowered beside Mr Ollivander.

"Got yer owl, Harry!" cried Hagrid, waving the cage high and striding forward in case he hadn't noticed it yet. "Ain't she a beauty!"

But _Boy_ emerged, fled around him, and out the open door. At running, he was well practised, and was quickly weaving through the throng.

"Yer owl, Harry!" cried Hagrid in bewilderment, thundering after him. "COME BACK HARRY! ... HARRY! ... HARRY POTTER!"

At Hagrid's cry, the hubbub ceased, the crowd parted, and heads turned to stare. Ollivander, having retrieved Harry's wand from the floor, was at the door in the hope of payment – but much more significant events were flashing swiftly before his eyes: Harry caught by the wrist of a toothless old crone, and a helpless target for – "_Avada Ked–_" – "NO!" bellowed Hagrid, moving to block the expected curse from up the street – "–_avra"_ – a tremendous thud of dust as Hagrid's lifeless corpse hit the ground with the caged body of a snowy owl rolling off from his outstretched fingers – a hooded figure swerving away to flee down Knockturn Alley, his wand arm still extended defensively.

"_Ironwood! Twenty inches, unyielding – Macnair!_" hissed Ollivander, his large silvery eyes acutely sensitive to the well-known profile.

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Damaged

"Rubeus gave his life to protect the boy, Albus," said Ollivander, "but I am uncertain as to what he's saved." He gestured towards Harry who was crouched on the floor of the wand shop, rocking and moaning his confusion and distress.

"He's been cursed? What ails him?" said the Headmaster, raising his wand to cast a few detection spells which drifted colourfully down over the cowering figure on the ground.

Ollivander shook his head. "The boy was already emotionally damaged and struggling to comprehend our world. The sight of violent death tipped him into a deeper catatonic state. He is utterly broken now even if he wasn't already."

"You were always prone to exaggerate, Garrick," sighed Dumbledore. "The lad is merely upset – nothing that a cup of hot chocolate and a good night's sleep in a safe, familiar bed won't relieve. I'll take him back to his Aunt Petunia and–"

"–UH! UH! UH!" screamed Harry, holding up his arms protectively, but the Headmaster pressed himself onto the boy's outstretched hands and, with a loud CRACK! was gone.

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The Spoilt Child

When Harry Potter abruptly found himself being sick on the Dursley's living room carpet, his mind reeled in confusion, but long-honed instincts cut in instantly. He stifled his screams, suppressed his expression into a submissive downcast one, and was on his feet as steadily as he could manage a few seconds later, ready to receive orders.

"WHAT IN THUNDER ARE–"

"–Calm yourself, Mr Dursley," Dumbledore said benignly, as a swish of his wand cleansed the fluffy cream shag of Harry's meagre breakfast. "The lad became over-exhilarated at all the wondrous sights and sounds. It was too much for him, but this nausea will quickly fade. Let us put him to rest for a few hours and all will be well. Might I ask you to show me to his bedroom please, Petunia?"

Petunia Dursley's face paled. If Dumbledore noticed her quick nervous glance at the hall cupboard door as they passed, he did not show it. "Th–this way..."

At the top of the stair, Dudley Dursley's rage showed in the distortion of his fat jowls. "But that's MY–"

"–Hush, Popkin, I'm showing the Headmaster to _Harry's_ room."

Her wink was wasted on the child. Vernon coaxed his furious son downstairs with a large slab of chocolate cake.

Harry clung only briefly to the doorframe; his memories of unspeakable torments within at the meaty hands of his cousin fought with his present fear of Aunt Petunia's glare. He was shaking with terror as he pulled on Dudley's oversized pyjamas, but the bed itself was even more harrowing, and he dare not even look at it; that was where he'd often been–

"–How you spoil the child, Petunia," smiled Dumbledore, his gaze sweeping across the heaps of toys strewn about the floor and shelves. "Into bed with you now, Harry, and your aunt will bring you up a nice hot cup of cocoa and sing you a lullaby to calm your excitement. Sweet dreams, my boy."

But as soon as Dumbledore had departed out of the front door, Petunia stormed back up the stairs, her face livid with anger. "I'LL GIVE YOU FUCKING COCOA, YOU BASTARD!"

She dragged him by the hair onto the floor with a thump – then paused, astounded. "You've... you've WET the bed! You've wet my Dudders' bed!"

Down came her hand across his face. Hard. "Lick it up! Lick up ALL that piss!" Her face was ugly with hatred. "VERNON!"

Harry wet his pyjamas again at the sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs. There was silence broken only by his whimpering as he clambered back onto the wet sheets. Then...

"YOU LOATHSOME, REPULSIVE, SICKENING FREAK!" bellowed Harry's uncle, seizing the boy by one leg and dragging him off the bed once more with another thump.

Harry felt himself flung against a cabinet causing it to burst open and spew out Dudley's 'Young Mechanic' box onto his head. But a mere bleeding forehead did not satisfy Vernon's rage. He hurled the boy out through the door and stomped after him.

Staring through the balustrade at the drop down the stairwell, Harry knew what was coming. He whispered, "_please no, Uncle!"_

Vernon's eyes bulged with astonishment. "What! What did you say, boy! What have I told you about EVER raising your voice to your betters!"

An arm and a leg this time was all it took to heave the child into the air and over the safety rail. Harry screamed. Then again as he hit the stairs, his collarbone snapped, and he slid down the steps as helpless as a lamb on an abattoir's conveyor belt.

"Work him extra hard this afternoon, Petunia. No excuses. And no supper."

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King's Cross

Weeks later, dumped by the laughing Dursleys in the midst of a swirling hazy crowd of people, Harry stared around bewildered and frightened. Where was he? And what was he to do? He had a large travel chest beside him, but Dudley had broken the castors with a hammer, and Harry's shoulder was far too painful for him to drag the heavy trunk into a corner. How he longed for his cupboard where he might simply have hugged himself in the dark.

He tried to push the baggage with his good shoulder but this action still caused him pain, the chest hardly moved, and he had no direction to aim for. Harry began to whimper.

A shadow fell across him and he instinctively cringed.

"You can get yourself a trolley near the entrance son. I'll watch your luggage."

It was a man's voice, deep, but not so abrasive or threatening as that of his Uncle Vernon. Harry was confused. He'd scarcely ever been out of his home, had never even been registered for school. He'd been told that all strangers would be a threat.

"Did you hear what–"

"–You fetch it, Edward. We've plenty of time." A woman's voice this time. Harry could just about see the length of hair against her pale throat. And was she smiling? It sounded like it. When people smiled it meant they were plotting something nasty.

"Right," growled the man, assessing the scrawny frame of the runt and his fearful expression.

Harry stared at the floor. There was litter and pigeon poop. His trainers were badly worn and open at the seams. Perhaps the strange lady wouldn't notice and laugh at him. She was certainly whispering to someone. Any moment now they'd–

"–_Go on, Hermione, he won't bite..._"

Little footsteps approaching. "Uumm... hello. My dad's fetching you a trolley."

Harry felt his face burning. It was a monstrous girl with a huge head and the fangs and mane of a lion! Dudley had warned him if he ever met a girl she'd pull his pants down, point and laugh. And crowds of girls would come to look and poke fun at him. That's what they did. He grabbed hold tight of his waistband, his jaw quivering with fear.

"What's your name? I'm Hermione Granger. That looks like a um... _school_ chest. Are you going to... what school are you going to?"

"Uh ... uh..." _school chest?_ he thought to himself, _that giant man had said something about a school but he'd made no sense at all. Am I going to school at last? A special school for freaks perhaps?_

"Oh, can't you say it? We're not allowed to either except to... Let me guess. Does it begin with H? I'm pleased to meet you anyway." The lion-girl took a step closer, a white hand reaching out for his.

Harry staggered back out of range, still clutching his pants tightly and stumbling against the hard edge of his travel chest. He bit hard on his lip to stifle the severe ache in his shoulder.

Hermione inched back to her mother, whispering, _"What's wrong with him, Mummy? Is he deaf and dumb? Or did I...?"_

"Something's wrong. I've not seen such fear in even my youngest patients faced with a tooth extraction, Hermione." Mrs Granger rifled though her carry bag, took out some pills, and broke one in half. "_Here, see if he'll accept this mild sedative to calm his nerves on the journey._"

Harry had turned away to cling to his travel chest, bracing himself against the pain and humiliation, trying to block out Hermione's words racing through his head. _What's wrong with him? Is he dumb? What's wrong with him? What's wrong with him? Dumb – dumb – dumb!_ There was no hiding place now. Everyone could tell he was a dumb freak, and they could prod and poke him or even–

"–Mummy says, would you like to try this pill? It'll make you feel better."

He couldn't turn to face her. He knew all about pills. Dudley made him swallow them sometimes. They make people sick; they make you want to die. The girl wanted him to die. Harry had nothing left and began crying. He didn't need a pill anymore to wish for death; he prayed for it. But the Enemy was everywhere, so where to run that was safe? _Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere – Nowhere._

"What's happening, Anne?" It was the man's voice again, followed by whispering. They'd be plotting something to embarrass him further. He clung to his trouser top with one hand while–

–There was a tug on his sleeve and Harry screamed a long piercing scream. Everyone on the platform looked round.

"Steady on, son. You can't stay here. I'm putting your trunk on this trolley, and we're going to wheel it together to the train. Then we're getting on the train. Do you understand?"

It was a command, so Harry nodded his head, wiped both eyes with the back of a hand, and stood ready to obey. He felt his fingers placed on a handle and let himself be led. Ahead he could see the blurry shapes of the girl and her mother rushing directly towards a brick wall. He lost sight of them. It was almost as if they'd fallen down a hole he couldn't see. Harry blinked, confused, but he had no choice. He NEVER had a choice. The man would surely beat him if he disobeyed. He closed his eyes tight and let the man pull him along with the trolley...

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Nice

Different sounds: a concentration of young voices, hisses and sparks crackling. Different smells: grease, smoke and steam. People were held in line by a huge shape that Harry could not understand. It didn't seem like a building, more like a row of buses. The man had mentioned the word 'train'. He had only the vaguest notion of what a train was – like buses joined together but running on a rail – perhaps this was that! He'd never been on a bus before, let alone joined-up buses! What if they didn't allow freaks?

"Help him aboard while I stow his chest," the man was saying.

"Watch out for him, darling."

"But, Mummy..."

Harry was bundled into a crowded compartment with seats, and guided down into a corner with the girl pressed next to him. Others were laughing and giggling around him. They were ALL girls! So, he wasn't going to a special school for freaks at all; he'd been tricked by the Dursleys into going to a GIRLS' school! He shrunk down and stared at his knees, mortified, when someone closed the door. Trapped!

"_What's that boy doing in here?"_

Hermione's shoulder jostled and Harry wondered if she was gesturing something rude to them, to signal that he was just a freak. They'd all be staring at him now, sniggering and planning. Perhaps they were waiting until the bus-train started moving so he couldn't jump off! He'd be at their mercy for who knew how many minutes the journey would take; what if it took a whole hour? It was his own fault; Dudley had warned him, yet he'd let himself be snared the first time he'd left home on his own. The giant man had been with him before. It wouldn't seem so bad if he were here now. Surely girls wouldn't pull down the pants of someone accompanied by a monster? But the giant was dead, and Harry struggled not to cry.

"Are you upset because you won't see your mummy and daddy for a while?" The girl was leaning close, staring, staring, staring... She smelt funny. Like roses. And her breath was minty. This near, she seemed to have even more hair than a lion.

"Are you mute? Can't you speak?"

He shook his head.

"Aha!" the girl said briskly, and pulled a notebook from her pocket. "I'll say things and you must write down what you want to say with this pen. Go on, take it; it's alright."

He daren't refuse an order. He pointed the pen at the notebook like he'd seen his aunt produce a shopping list by squiggling it, so he moved the end about a bit. Someone laughed, so he stopped.

"Erm... you have to take the top off... see? Like that. And turn it the other way round to the pointed end. Then you open the notebook like this and look for a blank page to write on – no, that's my bucket list. Turn the–"

"–That's a list of all the buckets she's got in her bucket collection, Dumbhead," sneered one of the older girls opposite.

"Don't be horrid!" cried the frizzy-haired lion-girl. "It's not that at all – take no notice, erm... what is your name, anyway? Look, a bucket list is all the things I want to do before I die and–"

"–Perhaps we can help you there, Mudblood – with the last bit about dying we mean. Then you needn't bother about how to do your stupid list."

"Yeah, make it a short list," scoffed another.

"Ignore them, uumm... look, I already told you my name is Hermione Granger. You write your name just here..."

Howls of laughter. "ERM–EYE–ON–HEEEEEEEEE!"

"HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE – HEEEEEE!"

" What sort of pathetic loser name is that?"

The door slid open. "Has anyone seen my toad?" quavered the boy who stood there.

Shrieks of laughter. "Train's full of crazies! Mudblood with a list of buckets, a dumb illiterate who can't even hold a pen right, and now a trembling toad-shagger!"

"Come on, girls, let's go and find Marcus and have some civilised conversation."

Four of the girls pushed out the door with the toad-boy jostled helplessly ahead of them, and all five disappeared from sight amidst squeals of delight about groping his toad for him. But two others who had remained quiet so far, remained behind, frowning. Harry began shaking with fright, certain that poor boy would definitely spend the rest of the journey trouserless, and how it could so easily have been himself. It proved Dudley had been right about girls – and there were still three in the compartment with him.

"Are you related to the Dagworth-Grangers?"

Harry shook his head, squinting to try to see who had spoken, but it was Hermione who answered, "No, I don't think so."

"I bet you are. I mean, you're magical and there can't be that many magical Grangers. You should look up your family tree. The Dagworths were famous potioneers. Those Slytherin girls know nothing about Muggle-borns. You're really new blood or 'restored blood' in your line. I'm Josey Fisher by the way, and this is Laura Cotton; we're both Ravenclaws."

"Second-years?" said Hermione. "Pleased to meet you."

They nodded.

"I hope I'm smart enough; I wouldn't mind being in Ravenclaw too," said Hermione wistfully, as she turned back to Harry. "And this is..." She shrieked at the open page of her notebook which was now full of squiggles.

Harry dropped the pen then fell into a cringe on the floor to scrabble for it, and recklessly whispering, "_Sorry, sorry, sorry..._"

"You spoke!" cried Hermione.

Harry shielded his head with one arm as he groveled back to his seat. "Uh, uh..."

"You _can't?_ Or don't? Or won't?"

"Uh, uh..."

"No need to be nervous now they've gone," chuckled Laura, "we're all friends here."

Harry blinked. How could they have made friends with Hermione so quickly? Was that how it was done? Just say who you are? He wished he had a name. What had Olly Vanders called him? Harry Potter? Perhaps he could pretend to be him. He bit his lip anxiously, bracing himself for one of the bravest things he'd ever done: to _intentionally_ raise his voice. "_Harry,_" he whispered almost inaudibly.

Hermione's eyes widened with delight. "Did you say, 'Harry'? Goodness, that's a lovely name. Now we shake hands like so..." She reached out and managed to grasp some of his fingers, then used her other hand to pull him into a proper handclasp which she then gently shook.

The most extraordinary sensation swept through Harry's body. Her hand was soft and cool and tiny – not scratching or gouging at all! His stomach flipped strangely, and when she let go he stared at his own hand, puzzled as to what the feeling meant, and wishing it were still there and not just a fading memory. A word began to form in his head. A word that had never applied to him or his miserable life before: _Nice..._

"It's etiquette," explained Hermione, searching his confused expression.

"We've worked it out, me and Josey," said Laura. "You don't need one hundred percent of intelligence to get into Ravenclaw. Listen, say you only have five percent each of loyalty, nobility, and ambition, but six percent knowledge and intelligence, then that could get you in. It's the highest proportion you see, and not the actual amount.

"And if it were that close," said Josey, "then the Hat takes into account the strength of your own wishes too."

"Hat?"

"Yes, you only wear a hat which sees everything about you. Why, if you wanted Ravenclaw strongly enough then you could get in even with a slightly lesser proportion of intelligence than the other qualities you have. For instance, there's a Weasley who we calculated must have seventy percent work ethic, sixty-five percent intelligence, but only sixty percent courage – yet the Weasleys are all desperate to get into Gryffindor so that's what happened."

A shiver swept through Harry's thin frame; he didn't have any _qualities_ at all! Nor did he know which house to live in. He hoped... yes, he suddenly realised, he _fervently_ hoped he was in Ravenclaw with Hermione. Would she shake hands with him every day? The thought produced tingles of longing he could not understand. But the feelings were _nice_ all the same.

.

—oOo—

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**Author's Notes**

_This story is the opposite of Walk Away Further: Neverstop. In Neverstop, Harry questions everything; in Broken Utterly, he resigns himself to everything. I have the next two chapters already well drafted and only waiting three more polishes to make them shine, so should be posted within a week or so._

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**\- Hippothestrowl**

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	2. Injustice Accepted

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_So far... Broken by the Dursleys' extreme cruelty, the bewildered and almost blind Harry Potter is further traumatised by Hagrid's death in Diagon Alley. But on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione provides his first experience of kindness. Will it be enough to help him through the Sorting? Now read on... _

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**Chapter 2**

**Injustice Accepted**

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Out Of Sorts

Harry hugged himself, shivering with dread of where he was and what was to come. His arrival at Hogwarts had been fraught enough but now the other children were to be 'Sorted' into 'Houses' according to qualities he knew he didn't have. When they'd entered the Great Hall amidst an ocean of staring children, he'd become quite rigid with blind fright. He couldn't see them properly, but this was a girls' school; did they all think _he_ was a girl? Or did everyone know a boy had been captured! That's what girls did! He gripped tightly to his pants top and closed his eyes tight mentally thanking Dudley for his brotherly guidance. Only Hermione's nudge had kept him moving forward to the front of the Hall where they trooped onto a low podium and had to turn to face the multitude. His legs turned to jelly and gave way. The sound of faint sniggering came to his ears. His cheeks were burning with shame.

"Is something wrong?" said the stern teacher who had led them in. She stepped forward, frowning.

"He just slipped," said Hermione, who was helping Harry up from his knees. She pressed him against another girl on his left and together they supported him.

There he quaked, struggling to distinguish through squinty eyes what was happening. When the teacher came close he could have sworn she was carrying a pointed hat with a wide brim – like a witch's hat! So it was true! This was a school for magicians! Did they have to perform tricks? Then he tried to remember what Josey had said on the train and the true horror shocked him: '_you wear only a hat and everything about you can be seen!'_ He had to be naked except for a hat in front of all these girls! _Everything_ would be seen! Only Hermione's grip kept him upright. The Hall swirled about him. He swayed dizzily. Someone was singing but he was too nauseous to pay attention until:

"Abbott, Hannah!"

There was a movement, and the girl on his left eased forward from him – he almost fell – a rope of blonde hair swished briefly over his shoulder – he strained to see where she went. Blurrily he sensed the teacher was placing a dark shape on her head: THE MAGICIAN'S HAT! Had she been made naked? Of course not! Girls were NEVER naked. Unthinkable! Unimaginable! Everyone knew they bathed in respectable Victorian swimwear. It could only be boys who had to undress and he knew he was the only one. He stared in her direction but she never came back to his group so he couldn't be sure.

"Bones, Susan!"

Harry trembled. _Bones began with 'buh' so 'BOY' might be next!_ Or did they know he had a pretend name?

He swayed again when an F name was announced; would Freak be next? But then...

"Granger, Hermione!"

He bit hard on his lip. Somehow he'd been relying on her not to let him fall. But she almost ran to the stool, eagerly abandoning him forever.

There was a long, long pause. ... In vain, Harry struggled not to think about Hermione being naked – girls never were, remember! NEVER! But still... just suppose...

"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat.

He groaned. He'd have to go and live in a completely different house from the only person who had ever helped him. An emptiness rose higher and higher within until it reached his throat where it constricted into a lump that brought tears to his–

"–Potter, Harry!"

He was truly paralysed. They knew his secret pretend name, and soon they would see all! There was nowhere to hide. He was wearing Dudley's baggy used underpants, soiled and smelly. His socks had holes and did not match. And the marks and bruises and scars he'd been forced to promise never EVER to reveal...!

"Potter, did she say?"

"_The_ Harry Potter?"

"MISTER Potter! Come forward!" demanded the stern teacher.

He had to obey. That was the one absolute that had been beaten into him since before he was two years old. He stepped forward – and fell off the front edge of the platform.

Laughter echoed around the Hall, growing in intensity as–

"–SILENCE!" boomed a voice, and the mockery ended.

"Sit on the stool then!"

He had no option. The seat had to be here somewhere... Harry groped blindly forward to where the others had sat. Something dark and sinister descended upon him...

TERROR such as he had never known! A demon invaded his most secret thoughts like an all-powerful searchlight. There was no possible evading its all-seeing eye. His entire being was truly, utterly naked and exposed, writhing and squealing on the floor. The hat could not be removed no matter how much he struggled. He thought he must go mad. Even he knew that this was no mere magic trick – he was now a helpless sacrifice in a school of black magic!

_Hmm..._ sneered the devil in his head, _Difficult. Very difficult. Not an ounce of courage, I see. Severe emotional damage, too. No talent at all, oh my goodness, no – and no interest in improving yourself either, now that's interesting ... So where shall I put you?_

_Ravenclaw – Ravenclaw – Ravenclaw!_ Harry heard himself reciting, his last remaining glimmer of hope...

_Ravenclaw, eh? No possibility of that. You have almost no intelligence and no knowledge of anything, even including your own name! You are illiterate, dull, inarticulate, near-blind, stupid, dumb by choice and too scared to whisper. You lack cunning and ambition. Never in a thousand years have I beheld anyone so utterly broken and worthless as yourself. Your only loyalty is to obey like a dog and work. It has to be..._

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Silence. Except for a few suppressed moans from one part of the Hall and faint sniggering from another.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Potter? Get up off the floor! Go to your table!"

_There are tables here?_ thought Harry, who had believed they would live in different houses.

A hand gripped his arm and he was pushed in the direction from where the moaning had come. They hated him!

"Hospital wing first thing in the morning, Potter, and get those eyes looked at!"

_Wing? Hospitals had wings?_ He groped onwards, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker. Ahead of him, a girl – it might have been the Susan Bones girl – was muttering, "_See the scar? You-know-who must have damaged his brain._"

_Scars?_ Was he still naked? He patted himself down and was relieved to find he was wearing clothes. Hatred and pain he must suffer obediently as was his lot, but humiliation was truly unbearable, especially from girls.

"Be careful, Susan..." murmured another voice – a BOY'S voice! So there _were_ other boys being held here too!

He found a seat as far away from the others as possible and stared down at his knees. He dared to glance up only once, away from the disdainful, smirking children, and towards the front of the Hall where they'd all been Sorted – but a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on his forehead. He winced and dropped his head down again, this time with eyes tight shut. They must be using black magic to control him whenever he had the arrogance to face his superiors without permission!

Presently he could smell the delicious aroma of food. He was used to waiting his turn. Sooner or later someone would order him to wash the dishes then he might be thrown a crust on the floor. His stomach grumbled in anticipation; he'd not eaten since yesterday. He tried to imagine the cupboard they would lock him in to sleep, and if it would even be in the house the others would live in – what had the Hat called it? Hufflepuff? Dudley had said puffs were really sissies who flounce and nancy about like girls. Was he not even a proper freak boy?

"Eat up then!" said a voice moving opposite – it might have come from the one called Hannah something – but the tone was so soft and gentle, so lacking in brittleness or anger, that instantly he knew it must be a deceit. She must have slid along the benches specifically to torment him! He raised his head just enough to faintly distinguish the rope of blonde hair – _two_ of them on either side of her head!

He had to obey or she'd whip him. But eat what? He reached forward and found an empty plate. He lifted it close to his face; yes it was shiny but definitely empty. Dudley did this to him sometimes so he was used to the prank. Often he would force him to lick the plate whether clean or vinegared or occasionally, if Harry had been lucky, the tasty, nutritious remains of Dudley's meal were still smeared across it.

"What do you want? Chicken? Beef? Gravy? Potatoes and so on?"

He'd definitely never been allowed to even taste those delicacies, but had once eaten some cold mashed potatoes left over from days before. The pulpy grey-green glop had been tasty once he'd scraped off the encrusted filth! He nodded hopefully and whispered, as he been instructed so often after receiving corrective punishment, "_thank you_"

"You're welcome."

There had been a smile in the tone of the voice. Harry knew what that meant. When the plate was slid back to him, he eyed it warily, wondering what might have been added: peppers? pins? beetles? dog turds? He knew all those odours ... and the flavours.

"Do try! I find it delectable!" said Hannah, digging eagerly at her own meal.

That was almost the same false enticement that Dudley would use, albeit less subtly: 'It's delicious! Look, watch me! _I'm_ eating it, so it's definitely safe! Yum, yum!' Nevertheless, Harry had no choice but to obey. He braced himself, then gingerly picked up a little mashed potato from the edge – Dudley usually buried something in the middle so the edges were often free from–

"–What are you doing? Use the knife and fork!"

He snapped to attention and groped around for the cutlery. He knew all about knives and forks, having been jabbed and scraped so often, and of course, he'd scrub them clean later, but use them? To eat? He scooped up a tiny piece of mash on the fork and held it close enough to sniff. It was fluffy and white with even a few peas – and was that a tiny slice of carrot? Nothing was wriggling in it so he touched it to his lips then, when nothing happened, slipped out the tip of his tongue to get a taste...

ASTONISHMENT! WONDER! Never had he tasted anything so glorious. He took the food into his mouth where it dissolved on his tongue. This, he knew, was too nice to be anything other than a sweetener: the bait to fool him into digging in heartily, but, pretending ignorance, he slowly turned the plate, working his way around the edges of the food, and all the while conscious that the girl was watching him – just like Dudley waited for him to reach the nasty surprise in the main part of the meal.

Tentatively he proceeded, spiralling slowly inward round the decreasing perimeter, and carefully turning over every piece of meat, every brussels sprout to investigate what might be lurking beneath...

"What are you looking for?" smiled Hannah. "Just eat your fill. Here, have some more..."

Harry winced and commenced to follow orders just as he'd been conditioned to do without question. Forkful after forkful he consumed and each one a delight and a terrifying expectation of something horrible. He ploughed on and on with a kind of resignation until... something very curious happened, a new sensation he'd never experienced before: his hunger was satisfied! He was full!

"Surely you can squeeze in a little dessert? Try some of this meringue."

He stared at the delicacy with revulsion, sniffing the air. Lemon! He'd known all along there'd be a catch, and this must be it. He picked up his spoon and prepared for the worst...

Nothing happened! Nothing except the novel experience of gorging himself on a delicious dessert! He looked in the direction of the blurry shape that was Hannah with a puzzled expression on his face. What had he missed? Had she forgotten the earwigs? The shredded scouring pad? The burning chillies? After failing to entertain his tormentor, he was in for it now surely?

But nobody threatened him with a beating. He was aware of someone making an incomprehensible announcement about 'forbidden' and 'painful death' to the room in general but not at him in particular. There was a noisy shuffling of feet. The Hufflepuffs were being guided away so he stayed with them, wondering if he'd ever see Hermione again or if she'd even remember him. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter had a full belly, but a strangely empty, aching heart.

.

Whereas I Was Blind...

The next morning, Harry stumbled out early, having laid down in the safety of a cupboard near someone's spare bed. There were a few other boys still dozing but where the normal Hufflepuffs slept, Harry did not know. The previous evening, the stern lady had given him an order to complete _first thing!_ So by six chimes of a distant clock he was heading out in search of a hospital with wings. They'd put him in the lowest, lowest level of the castle, so the only way was up. He ascended into a large hall he suspected was next to the Great Hall in which he'd dined the night before – yes, he could smell toast and porridge! Dudley used to sometimes let him look at his porridge as he poured on golden syrup...

Harry's stomach growled and he shook himself from the fantasy. Where to find the winged hospital? A great marble staircase rose up before him and one or two students were descending...

"Harry!"

He knew that voice; it was the bossy lion-girl – yes, her pumpkin head fuzzed out distinctively, and her huge fangs flashed when she spoke.

"Where are you– oh! Are you going to the hospital wing like Professor McGonagall told you to?"

He stared blindly, unable to discern her expression or be sure of her motives. Was she scowling? Certainly her teeth were bared more than normal. Would he be in for a scolding? Or an ear-pinching? Or... suddenly remembering Dudley's warning, he nervously gripped his trouser top just in case.

"Come on, I'll help you find it."

Her hand took his wrist and he was tugged towards the stairs down which she'd just come and another figure was just descending. "Excuse me, uumm... Percy isn't it? The Deputy Headmistress ordered Harry to the hospital wing. Could you...?"

Red hair shook – or was that a nod? Harry could not tell which way the person was facing.

"Very well, this way."

He guided them along the first upper floor and pointed. "Directly along there you'll come to the Hospital tower. You can't miss it."

They soon found the entrance and were immediately greeted with, "What is it now? Ah, it's you, Potter! Just as well. Professor McGonagall asked me to inform her if you didn't turn up. The woman sighed and put down her cup of iced tea. "What _is_ the problem?"

"It's his eyes, Matron," said Hermione.

"And what are you? His guide dog?"

Harry thought that was rather unkind considering the girl had helped him. He was broken out of his reverie by a flash of purple that hit him full in the face...

"Mmm... extreme Myopia. Well, what do you expect me to do about it, Potter? Why aren't you wearing glasses?"

Hermione said, "But Madam Pomfrey, he was told by Professor McGonagall that he–"

"–Yes, yes, his eyes can be healed by magic but it's excruciating deformation! Why'd you think most shortsighted wizards wear spectacles? Oh very well. Sit down here and brace yourself, Potter – no, not like that! Lock your feet under the footrest so you don't kick me, lean forward and grip this iron rail with both hands, then clench in front of your tongue, otherwise you'll bite it off, you silly boy!"

He thought she was going to poke a stick in his eye but then realised it was a magician's wand like the one in his travel trunk. The lady murmured some strange words. Jaws clamped, Harry screamed into his mouth. A tiny trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of his lips but he never stopped howling through his teeth.

"Oh do sit still and stop squirming! It'll only take a few minutes. If you can't stand the heat then keep out of the cauldron!"

Harry felt as if his eyeballs were being squashed – and they probably were. Light flashed even though his eyes were shut tight against the severe pain.

Then everything went dark.

"No, don't open your eyes yet, Potter! Wait a few moments. I'm not a miracle worker you know ... there now... keep looking down, then very, very slowly raise your eyelids..."

Harry gasped. His lips parted in a wide gape. He could see every stitch in his shoes in great detail! Even a perfectly formed drop or two of red blood from his mouth. One of the laces was badly knotted – it was beautiful how he could see every intricate–

"–Well?" snapped Pomfrey.

He looked up. His jaw dropped even further. The girl – Hermione, he remembered – was not hideous like he'd imagined. Her hair was a glorious halo in the golden sunrise streaming through a nearby window. The teeth were not fangs but perfectly shaped pearls, shining white, and polished! The nose was a dainty nub and the ears amazingly intricate – but it was the tiny details that astounded him: every single hair in a wisp, the varied hues of delicate skin, and each individual eyelash! And those eyes! Molten amber. Full of concern. Looking directly at him. Harry Potter was mesmerised by the splendour of the first person he had ever, ever, actually seen!

"You also have a partly healed clavicle fracture. One teaspoon of Skele-Gro should take care of that and the tissue damage associated with it."

"Aaaaaggghhhh!" spluttered Harry, as Matron pinched his nose and held the spoon firmly in his mouth; it was either swallow or not breathe. Harry held on as long as he could but eventually choked it down.

"Well, what did you expect? Pumpkin juice? Now get– TURNER! What are you doing out of bed and where are your pyjama bottoms!" Matron hurried off to tend to another patient.

Hermione squealed and covered her eyes but the damage was done. The mystery of boys' bodies and her innocence were both lost forever. When she next peeked between her fingers, Harry, eyes watering profusely, was fanning his open mouth with both hands and panting over the smoking tongue.

"Here!" cried Hermione, handing him Matron's cold drink. Harry took it and dutifully awaited instructions despite his mouth burning with pain.

"Well, drink it then, Harry!"

He obeyed. Willingly. Without fearing a trap from this impeccable goddess-protector-mistress. It tasted good.

When his eyes stopped streaming, he blinked away the last tears and stared once more at Hermione's features. To behold such fine details would take a lot of getting used to for the deprived boy.

"What?" she frowned at his stare.

"_Nice,"_ whispered Harry, daringly, and the never-yet-used smile muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly.

"Honestly, it's just tea cooled with ice or a common spell," said Hermione loftily. "I read about it in _Beverage Charms for Beginners_ but it's really a summer drink. The book also covers things like hot cocoa, soups, even porridge and– goodness, we'll be late for first breakfast! Come on!"

She led the way at a jog with Harry following eagerly. The boy could finally see where he was going.

.

Black and White

The Great Hall was filling up noisily, but a hush descended as Harry and Hermione entered. His newly-heightened senses were immediately on overload: an angry sea of warty, spotty, pale, dark, mobile, twisty faces turned to glare – some stood up to see better – a fist was raised – owls flapped and hooted overhead – Hermione abandoned him for the Ravenclaw table without a backward glance – Harry, lower lip quivering, stumbled around without any destination. Then... he glimpsed blonde whips of hair at the far end of the Great Hall. He ran to them. Familiar punishment would be far better than those accusing eyes!

"Hagrid died because of you, Potter!" cried one Hufflepuff, who was waving a rolled-up newspaper, and bruised Harry's head with it as he passed. So that was it? They'd learnt more of what had occurred in Diagon Alley that day...

Harry found his seat near Hannah, but she looked away, tears in her eyes. She must have loved Hagrid very much, he thought. On the table before her was another copy of the newspaper. Despite his now-perfect eyesight, the large words headlined on the front: _MACNAIR CAPTURED!_ were still meaningless marks to the boy, but the twitching corpse in the photo spoke for itself. The dead bird in the cage was motionless and Harry stared; it was no longer scary at all, in fact it was–

"–The full report is now here in irrefutable black and white, Potter, and the camera cannot lie!" snapped Susan Bones. "How you led Hagrid out to his death!"

Someone thwacked him on the back of his already-bruised head. Harry instinctively slipped off the bench and crouched submissively awaiting further punishment. He kept his head down, knowing he deserved this treatment for being a freak. A dollop of hot porridge hit him on the ear – he dare not wipe it away no matter how hungry he was – followed soon after by a goblet splashing across his hunched shoulders. Someone spat at him. After twenty or thirty minutes there was quite a pile of objects littered around the lad, but the noise was abating as students finished their meals and began to depart. He kept his eyes tight shut, hoping someone would order him to eat. No one did.

An icy chill crept over Harry.

"Hagrid was dearly loved. Even we Hufflepuffs will be slow to forgive your wicked act."

Harry squinted one eye open. He found himself staring right through the greyish-silver legs of a robed figure. Startled, he looked up – and fainted.

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The Power of Toast

"Harry! Harry! Wake up!"

He blinked dizzily, easing his aching limbs into slow movement. _Was that Hermione's voice I was dreaming of?_

"We'll be late for Potions and oh! we'll be in so much trouble!"

His eyes slowly opened as he tried to recall where he was and why he was on the ground but not in his cupboard under the stairs.

"The Fat Friar's just your House ghost – honestly, he's nothing to be afraid of."

Hazily, Harry tried to gather his thoughts, but nothing made sense. _Ghost? Fat fryer? But–_

"–Where's your timetable? Is that it screwed up on the floor?"

Numbly he watched her open up some crushed paper and smooth it out.

"Yes, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, Double Potions, Mondays, first class." She handed him the schedule before tugging at his arm. "Oh, do come on!"

He stumbled after her, disregarding the emptiness in his stomach, which was normal for him, and focused entirely on Hermione: she hadn't forsaken him completely after all! And they were to share lessons!

"I saved you some toast – here, you'd better eat it quickly as we go along."

Harry took the offering in reflex but stopped walking in astonishment. New emotions surged up within him, engulfing his heart painfully. His throat hurt too, and he was overwhelmed with tears that streamed down his face. He longed to say thank you, but the words struggled to find the way from his heart to his mouth.

"Whatever's the matter?" cried Hermione, coming back to see.

Harry held up the toast, unable to express why the gift had touched him so, nor even himself comprehending the powerful feelings that soared within. The boy was a truly pitiful sight, blubbering as he was.

"I'm sorry, Harry, it was all that was left," Hermione said sadly. "Can you hang on till lunchtime?" She looked swiftly around. "We'd better run. Come on!"

.

The Cruel Disciplinarian

"Ah, yes," the Potions teacher said softly as he was taking the register, "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity _serial killer._ Mr Potter has the dubious record of causing two deaths before he's even... _learned to talk._"

Boos and growls sounded through the classroom which the teacher did nothing to suppress.

The man finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid's had been, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels. "Potter!" he cried suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry dared a fearful glance sideways at Hermione who's hand had shot up in the air. He fumbled the book before him on the workbench, but if the answer lay within, he had no way of reading it. Sheepishly he shook his head.

The Professor's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut – infamy clearly isn't everything."

The man sniffed disdainfully. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"Uh... uh..." Harry shook his head again and stared down at the crown graffiti carved into the top of his workbench. He had no clue the name carved there was that of the person who had first tried to murder him, while elsewhere in the room, Macnair's initials embellished a crude axe motif.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter? Well then, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry kept his head down and shook it.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff for disrespect, Potter! You _will_ give me the answer," snapped the man, "or else reply, 'Sorry, I do not know, Professor Snape'."

"He can't, sir!" cried Hermione, half-rising in indignation.

"SILENCE!" thundered Snape. "TWENTY points from Ravenclaw."

"But he can't–"

"–DETENTION, GRANGER! If you can't stop showing off and learn to keep your mouth shut then perhaps you can learn how to scrape congealed Bubotuber Pus off a dozen cauldrons with caustic and a wire brush."

"Uuuuuh..." gasped Harry. He knew all about caustic; his fingers still bore the scars. He had to do something! If he were given _the tension_ instead, then perhaps he could scrub the cauldrons for Hermione. "Uuh Uuh Uuh!"

"Something to say, Potter? Or was that a selection of your usual animal grunts?"

Harry looked wildly about for some outrageous act that might earn him cauldron duty. "UUH!" He pushed his book off the bench onto the floor.

Snape glared. "FIFTY points from Hufflepuff! Pick it up, Potter!"

Timidly, Harry obeyed. But as he did so, the volume fell open and he snatched at it with his other hand. His fingers grasped only pages which tore immediately. He tried to hide them by closing the book but–

"–ONE HUNDRED points from Hufflepuff for destroying school property!"

Hermione jumped to her feet. "But that's his own–"

"–SILENCE! We'll make that TWO dozen cauldrons, shall we and... Potter, what are you doing?"

Harry was tearing the remaining pages out of his textbook and casting them about. Hermione sucked in her breath at his audacity.

Snape's eyes flitted back and forth between the pair of of them. "Ah... I see... perhaps you are hoping to share punishment with your... _girlfriend_, is that it? Very well. Far be it from me to upset your love life. DETENTION!"

Harry understood little of that, but he could see Hermione's cheeks burning, and he knew in some way he must be responsible – he always was.

"Tonight. Six-thirty sharp!" smirked Snape.

Hermione's mouth opened, but she closed it quickly without saying anything. Snape knew full well that meant they'd miss dinner. She resolved to bundle up a few extra sandwiches at lunchtime...

.

Punishment by Proxy

The Potions teacher's office was a gloomy and dimly-lit room in the school dungeons. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars filled with slimy, revolting things, such as bits of animals and plants, floating in potions of varying colours. Harry dropped his head and shuddered.

"Since you are regularly prone to cowering and lowering your head, Potter, Mr Filch has kindly removed the human remains from this iron gibbet so you can stand within its iron cage and learn to keep upright like a real man."

Hermione cried, "But he's still a–"

"–SILENCE! You, Granger will quarter-fill each cauldron in turn with cold caustic solution and scrub with this wire brush until every vessel shines like new. No cheating! I have cast a spell on the brush to count every stroke while my attention is elsewhere. Well? What are you both waiting for?"

Harry moved towards the cauldrons, wondering how he could somehow swap tasks with Hermione.

"POTTER!" Snape dragged him by the collar into the gibbet. There was a loud clang as Snape locked the metal gate to imprison Harry in the restrictive human-shaped cage suspended from its heavy chains. "I have turned you to face the cauldrons, Potter. Your task is to count Granger's brush strokes. If your total does not tally within a dozen of the charm I cast then you will find yourself in deeper trouble. Is that clear?"

Although very short and skinny, Harry found he could scarcely move within his confinement, for its iron bands were springy, and their clamps screwed themselves in magically to fit each victim. He could neither lower nor turn his head, but was forced to watch Hermione's anguish. He'd never learnt to count above eighteen – that being the number of steps up and down which he'd trudged each week to empty his bucket in the bathroom and to clean the Dursleys house. However, he could faintly hear Hermione whispering as she counted for him, so he tried to pay attention.

But soon her pitiful cries obscured and confounded even her counting. The poor child's hands were becoming red raw from the caustic, and Harry knew that blisters would not take long to appear. To watch her suffer, and know it was his own fault she was there, was appalling, but he could not avert his eyes more than a few degrees – just enough to glimpse Snape watching him with a sadistic sneer on his face. Harry might be ignorant, but even he realised this vicarious torture was deliberately intended. To be forced to watch the consequences of his own freakishness was something Dudley had enjoyed most. The lad gulped as he recalled the short life of Proxy, the baby cat his cousin had bought and named for him. But Hermione was the doomed kitten now.

Nor was Harry's own situation an easy one. After one hour he was painfully stiff; after two he would have fallen if the cruel iron had allowed it. Almost three hours passed before Hermione softly hissed at him, "twelve thousand four hundred and seventeen," and allowed the wire brush to fall from her raw and ruined fingers. At least two fingernails were gone that Harry could see.

.

Helping Hands

The hour was late when Snape dismissed the pair; the dungeon corridors were dark and nobody was about, apart from a distant door slamming and a passing house-elf with a feather duster.

"Miss is needing help?" said the elf, eyeing Hermione's hands.

Hermione scarcely knew where she was, and could not respond. She had one forearm across Harry's shoulder; he was himself staggering with stiff and uncoordinated limbs. "_please..._." he managed to whisper.

The elf turned to a picture of a giant fruit-bowl on the nearby wall and tickled a large green pear which squirmed, giggled, then turned into a door handle. The creature guided them through the door and snapped his fingers. Instantly, half a dozen more elves appeared. "Essence of Murtlap," squeaked the elf, vanishing his duster and rolling up his sleeves.

Soon Hermione was sitting down, soaking her hands in the solution and sighing with relief. Harry stood and watched, having declined several offers of different varieties of seating because he was not yet able to bend. With his attention entirely on Hermione, he remained as immobile as when in the full-body cage. The house-elves stood attentively too. Far across the kitchen a saucepan was bubbling but generally it was very quiet in this off-peak period – though the wonderful aromas of bread baking for the morning and many other luscious foods filled the chamber. In the hush, the sudden growling of Harry's stomach sounded embarrassingly loud.

"Harry! Surely you didn't miss lunch as well as breakfast and dinner!" cried Hermione, lifting one hand from the bowl in consternation. "I saw you staring at your empty plate, but I thought..."

Harry could not explain. She didn't seem to understand that he was not allowed to eat until ordered to.

Abruptly, Hermione's eyes bulged wide. "Goodness, I forgot!" She raised her dripping hands then plunged them back into the healing fluid. "In one of my pockets, Harry, I wrapped up some sandwiches at lunch but there was no time to eat them later – to be honest, I forgot."

The poor boy gaped. How could he feel inside a girl's pockets? Unthinkable! Yet he was forced to obey her direct order...

He began with the loosest part of the side of her robe, yet as he groped deeper, all he could feel was the warmth of her leg and hip. Swiftly he withdrew his hand and went round to her other side – but with the same result.

"Perhaps I put them in..." Hermione's voice tailed off and her cheeks flushed beetroot red as she remembered. She'd had to hide them away in the inside pocket of her Hogwarts jacket.

Tentatively, Harry forced himself, inch by excruciating inch, to reach into her–

"Is young master hungry?" squeaked the elf who'd brought them here. He snapped his fingers. Instantly elves leapt into action, piling succulent slices of beef, salads, and mouthwatering desserts onto plates on the nearest table. So fast were the little creatures that Harry barely had time to remove his hand from inside Hermione's jacket before they were dragging the table over to the young couple.

"Eat all you wish!" cried the elves, "there's plenty more!"

Harry stared at the soggy ham and lettuce sandwich he'd removed from Hermione's chest pocket, and wondered if he ought to return it. Could he sneak it back while she was distracted? Surely he couldn't. Hermione was staring down at her lap with her face still blushing furiously. He lacked any initiative of his own, and the elves had ordered him to eat what he wished, and his most fervent desire was to–

–With trembling fingers, the boy carefully unwrapped the sorry-looking sandwiches and bit deep. The heat of Hermione's body that still softened and saturated the ham seemed to bring out its flavour, though Harry's attention was less on the taste in his mouth and more on fighting his imagination. This was _her_ warmth! Her softness!

His eyes caught hers and with a shock he realised she was unable to feed herself, yet must be as ravenous as himself! "UH! UH!" He dropped the sandwich and stumbled awkwardly to grab the nearest bowl of chocolate sponge pudding and custard which he began spooning into her mouth – much as Dudley had trained him to when he knew Harry was especially hungry.

No starving person can speak with a mouth full of delectable, light, fluffy sponge, and Hermione was no exception. Frankly, she was struck dumb with astonishment, and swallowed each portion without protest. There are some experiences a girl can't enjoy without ending up liking someone – and feeling that person's fingers exploring your inside pocket, then being handfed chocolate sponge are two of them.

.

—oOo—

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* * *

**Author's Notes**

_And that's just the first day! Surely things can't get worse? _

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**– Hippothestrowl**

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	3. The Depths Of Depravity

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_So far... Broken by the Dursleys' extreme cruelty, the bewildered Harry Potter is further traumatised by Hagrid's death in Diagon Alley. Only Hermione shows him kindness, but he's isolated in Hufflepuff. A shared cruel detention with Snape brings them closer together. Now read on... _

.

**Chapter 3**

**The Depths Of Depravity**

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.

The Envisioning of Envy

The next morning, Hermione tried in vain to help Harry transfigure his match into a needle, but the most he could ever achieve was a colourless drip or two that fell listlessly off the end of his wand like thin snot. Layer upon layer of guilt feelings associated with his freakishness had suppressed his magic to near Squib level. Even if the Dursleys had failed to beat the magic out of him, they had at least buried it under the weight of suffering within his troubled mind.

He fared better in Herbology where his background of digging, manuring, and weeding the Dursleys' garden made him less reluctant to deal with dragon poo than most other students. He'd handled worse. Much worse.

Quirrell, his Defence teacher, after scoring him worst ever, even at casting sparks, regarded him with dismissive contempt, and the most Harry ever got out of his lessons was a sharp pain in his forehead.

Midweek, Charms commenced with book theory; their teacher, Flitwick, explaining that it was first essential to understand the meaning of imposing magic upon objects. "Study the first chapter of your Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, then we shall discuss it and I will answer any questions."

Hermione had already read this chapter several times but nonetheless was on the third page once more before she noticed Harry to her left, was still near the start of the Chapter. In fact his finger was pressed upon the letter 'C' of the word 'Chapter, and as Hermione watched, there it remained. The shocking realisation dawned upon her.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, "can't you even read? How have you been following your school timetable – no, don't tell me, you've been following the other Hufflepuffs, haven't you?"

Hermione's disappointment in Harry seemed infinitely more painful to him than that of the Dursleys. He hung his head and nodded shamefully. "_followed Hannah's rope hair,_" he mouthed.

Hermione looked around the classroom. Everyone was studying or conferring quietly with their partners. Finally her eyes found– "The blonde girl with pigtails?"

Harry nodded.

Hermione stared at the young student, and a strange pang of envy crept through her heart. It was obvious to Hermione that Hannah would make a far better friend for Harry than herself. For one thing, she was much prettier than _she_ could ever be, with neat, even teeth, and carefully controlled hair, braided and tidy. The girl's jaw was more delicate and her nose much more pert. In short, Hannah was fair in every way, whereas Hermione knew she herself was a dull mousy brown both in appearance and in character. Hermione's shoulders slumped so low that a knotty tress whipped across her face like the contempt of a lover's slap.

A curious resentment dug into the pit of her stomach as another possibility came to Hermione. "Is it true what they say about Hufflepuff?" she murmured dismally. "Everyone is friendly with everyone and they all share one big dormitory?"

Harry gasped. So that's where all the normal Hufflepuffs slept! How lucky he'd found a cupboard then, and could ignore and be ignored. With his imagination racing, he nodded absently; it all made sense now. His own smaller dorm must have been reserved for sissy freaks like himself. Certainly they remained silent while he was around.

Hermione groaned softly. In her mind's eye she could see the rows and rows of beds crammed closely together – they'd have to be wouldn't they! If Harry was following Hannah everywhere he'd certainly be sleeping next to her. Watching her put on her nightgown every night and... take it off the next morning! Ridiculous! Can't be!

But Hermione's reason and imagination had taken flight. The frowning child winced and shook her frizzy head, trying to dispel the vivid picture of Harry's new super-laser-sharp eyeballs popping out on stalks the better to leer greedily. But she couldn't shake away the vision. It played over and over: Harry transfixed and gawking; Hannah flaunting herself before him, swaying her hips and swinging her stupid pigtails as she flashed her nightgown up and down like a manic semaphore flag in a–

–"_Hermione?_" whispered Harry.

"WHAT!" she cried, slamming her book shut.

"Keep the noise down please," said Flitwick firmly. "You'll need a good grounding in this first chapter if you are to succeed with your Charms practicals."

Hermione cringed apologetically, not least towards Harry. What had come over her? Just because–

–She glanced sideways at the hopeless boy. His eyes were downcast and glistening, like a kicked puppy who'd been shouted at without understanding why. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault he was a boy with wicked boy thoughts! And was forced to watch Hannah every– her heart melted. "Reading room," she said firmly. "We'll learn to read in a reading room."

.

Innocence Uncovered

That evening they met in the smallest, remotest reading room the castle provided. The books were limited and appeared worn, grey, and dusty despite the daily endeavours of the elves to remember them. Torn periodicals and old newspapers also ended up buried here in this forgotten literary graveyard.

Reluctantly, Hermione began teaching Harry to read from a ragged copy of Witch Weekly, the cheap periodical containing the simplest expressions of the language she could think of. Learning letters, words, and sentence construction was a long and arduous process, but by the end of October, Harry was following her finger as she traced out each sentence for him to repeat after her:

"_The ... new ... hat ... in ... Madam ... Malkin's ... is ... so..._" intoned Harry, following Hermione's fingertip. The subtle pink fingernail fascinated him. He could not understand how the edge was so perfectly rounded and shaped – almost as if she'd smoothed it down by some unknown method after gnawing it away like he did his own. And the skin of her finger was a pale, gentle–

"–_sweet_, Harry, the new hat is _sweet_," said Hermione encouragingly.

"Sweet," repeated Harry in his usual whisper, and staring at her finger. "It is so sweet."

"That's right! Well done!" cried Hermione reaching out to scrabble through some other magazines. "Shall we try a newspaper now, or perhaps–"

–But Harry's gaze had been diverted by one word in a headline that Hermione had just partly revealed. It was a word he'd only ever known by sound before: _MAC ... NAIR!_. He stared at it, mouthing the spelling to be sure he'd not misunderstood.

Hermione hastily covered it up and reached for another copy of Witch Weekly. "Forget about it, Harry. I've forgiven you even if no one else has."

Harry glanced at her expression, then down again to his normal submissive pose. He felt badly enough about Hagrid being killed, but relieved that Hermione bore him no ill will despite his guilt.

"Hang on," she said suddenly. "How could you have read the signpost last summer if you couldn't–"

–She snatched at the Daily Prophet and quickly read the lead article once more before looking back at Harry. "Well?"

He shook his head, completely baffled as to what she was talking about.

"It says here: _Harry Potter ran to the signpost then headed off in the direction of Knockturn Alley, luring the gentle giant to his doom. No doubt he was an accomplice of Macnair's, but the man they call 'The Butcher' has already received the Dementor's Kiss so we may never find out._ Did you already know what the sign said?"

Harry whispered, "_Never did._"

"You never saw the sign? Then why did you–" She paused. "You've not even read this article have you? Of course you haven't." Again she fell silent for a few moments. "What actually happened, Harry?"

"_scared – ran from owl with big nasty eyes – Hagrid called my name – lady caught me._"

"Hagrid called out _your_ name? Near Knockturn Alley! For Goodness sake, what was he thinking!" She gnawed on her lower lip, working it out. "How could you have run to signal Macnair if a woman caught you?"

"_didn't"_

"Harry, this is the official report published in what I'm sure is a reputable newspaper!" She put a hand on one hip. "You're not saying it's all lies are–"

"–What are you two doing up here!" demanded a voice from the doorway. It was Professor McGonagall. "Don't you know there's been a troll loose in the school!"

"A troll! ... In the school? Has it been–"

"–We've been worried sick! Fortunate indeed that the Weasley twins informed the staff you sometimes came up here! And yes, the troll _has_ been disposed of, so the castle is safe once more."

Hermione blinked. How could those Gryffindors possibly know where she and Harry were? "Sorry, Professor, we left dinner early to do some extra study."

"On Halloween?" frowned McGonagall, then sighed in resignation. "Oh, well, if you've been studying I can hardly blame you for not hearing the announcement. All students were returned to their dormitories. I'll escort you both now. Follow me..."

.

Naked Aggression

Harry's reading and writing, and even his speech had improved enormously by the end of December, though Hermione suspected he was sometimes pretending not to understand words. She had to repeat certain exercises which, at other times, he sailed through easily. Why he was delaying the completion of her tuition she could not fathom out, but she would not desert the boy now they were... Hermione twisted up her mouth in irritation; had she been foolish to assume they were now friends? Perhaps Harry was just glad to be helped by anyone, lost as he was in a sea of hostility.

Fortunately, the forgotten reading room had proved to be a treasure trove of books not available in the main library. Hermione had discovered an excellent book of rare potions and one of really useful Charms essays, both of which she studied avidly while Harry was writing out words and phrases he copied from her homework.

"It's almost lunchtime, Harry..."

"_but..._" breathed Harry timidly.

He still never raised his voice above a whisper. Perhaps he couldn't, Hermione thought. "It's Saturday, remember?" she said briskly, packing up her papers. "We can come back later. Why not take a book to read with... with... uumm..."

"_Hannah? She doesn't talk to me anymore–_"

"–What!" Hermione's tone was a mixture of disbelief, disgust – and a dash of delight.

"_Not since that newspaper... that newspaper–_"

"–_report._ Or you could use the word _article_ for a news story." Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "Actually _story_ would be better in this case because it was almost entirely fiction."

"_...ever since that story in the Daily Prophet._"

"Shame on Hannah! ... One more page then..."

Harry's eyes lit up. Hermione was his favourite – no, his _only_ – listener and he pulled open his most-loved book: _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. His whispered speech always provided an atmosphere of great secrecy, intimacy, and mystery to the girl:

"_High on a hill in an enchanted garden, enclosed by tall walls and protected by strong magic, flowed the Fountain of Fair Fortune._"

"_Once a year, between the hours of–_"

"–How pathetic!" sneered a voice from the doorway. "You heard right, Goyle, this is where they–"

"–Malfoy!" spat Hermione, rising to her feet and reaching into her pocket.

"Oh, shut it, mudblood! Grab her wand, Goyle!"

"UH! UH!" cried Harry, leaping in front of the advancing Slytherin, who simply pushed him over onto the floor where he began whimpering.

"Slap him about a bit, Crabbe. Scarcely worth wasting even a hex on a crybaby."

"Stop! Leave him alone!" shouted Hermione, who was wrestling in the grip of Goyle's meaty fingers.

"Oh, dear, has someone kicked your puppy?" said Draco, turning to nudge Harry with his foot. "On your feet, Potter, I want to knock you down again."

Harry quickly scrambled up and stood obediently before Malfoy who stared at him in amazement. "The halfwit actually..." Malfoy looked thoughtful for a few moments. "Stand on one leg, Potter!"

"Uh, uh." Harry quickly complied.

Malfoy's eyes widened in even greater astonishment. "Now your other – no, both legs together."

"Uh," whimpered Harry. This was one of Dudley's favourite amusements from an early age. Down went the boy, badly cracking one knee.

Malfoy's jaw gaped wide. It took him a few seconds to recover. "Your wand, Potter. Give me your wand."

Harry dutifully handed it over.

Malfoy tossed it to Crabbe. "See if you can hex the mudblood with this. Might be useful blackmail."

Crabbe frowned then pointed. Goyle quickly pushed Hermione forward at arms length. The sting hit her in the stomach and she doubled-up screaming.

"Again," commanded Malfoy. "The only use for vermin is to hear them squeal."

"Help me, Harry, please!" cried Hermione.

"Stay where you are, Potter!" cried Malfoy.

Harry froze in mid-stride, aghast at what was happening. Crabbe hit Hermione several times with various painful hexes and jinxes until Hermione, unable to stand upright, sagged down, sobbing.

Malfoy turned back to Harry. "From now on you only obey me, Potter, is that clear?"

"Uh uh."

"I order you to speak! Do you understand you must only obey me and no one else!"

"_yes,_" murmured Harry.

"Not good enough! You will address me as 'sir', and 'master'!"

"_yes, sir. yes, master,_" whimpered Harry.

Malfoy began to laugh. Crabbe and Goyle joined in.

"Make him, dance, Draco!" smirked Goyle, who had hoisted Hermione onto her feet again to watch.

"Good one, Goyle. You heard him, Potter! Dance!"

Harry had no idea how to dance but he complied as best he could, swinging his feet about and prancing foolishly from side to side.

The Slytherins were shrieking with laughter. "Without your clothes, Potter. Get them off," sneered Draco. "Let's find out how stupid you really are."

Harry became almost paralysed with fear, but only for the moment, such was the grip of his obeisance. "_yes, sir. yes, master._" Slowly, with shaking fingers, he began to disrobe...

"NO!" sobbed Hermione.

"YES! All of them! And faster, Potter! And dance while you're undressing!"

Harry almost fell over while trying to remove his shoes.

"Too slow, idiot! ... Let me do it!" With a few vicious movements of Draco's wand, all of Harry's clothes vanished.

The room began to spin for poor Hermione. Dizzy from the spells and the shock of Harry's humiliation as, now totally naked, he cavorted clumsily but obediently as ordered. She staggered – but Goyle held her up.

"What's going on here!" thundered a voice from the doorway.

Hermione gasped, "Professor Snape! They–"

"–Be quiet, Granger. Suppose you tell me, Draco..."

"We discovered Potter exposing himself to Granger. He's gone mad, sir. When we tried to stop him he hexed her badly. Crabbe bravely disarmed him, and Goyle is helping Granger who naturally has been badly frightened and can hardly stand."

Hermione could hardly gasp. "That's n–not ... wh–what–"

–She was silenced with one contemptuous wave of Snape's hand.

The Potions Master's face darkened as Crabbe handed him Harry's wand so the teacher could check the last spells cast by it. "DETENTION, Potter! And you may even be expelled for this. Get back to your dorm immediately and, for pity's sake, get dressed! GO NOW!"

Hermione whimpered breathlessly, "B–But ... Entrance Hall ... crowded with ... for lunch!"

"SILENCE! I shall see he gets through safely – though I expect everyone to run a mile from this repulsive exhibitionist. Take care of her, Goyle."

Pushing the naked boy ahead of him, Snape departed.

Draco watched them go ... then turned back to Hermione. "Why'd Potter do what Snape ordered when I told him only to obey me?"

"I don't know..." whimpered Hermione. Goyle twisted her arm. She shrieked. "Well, can't you see? He's emotionally broken. He probably just does whatever he's told last! He's obviously been treated badly since he was a baby."

"Good! From now on, I aim to keep it that way."

"What about Granger, Draco?"

Draco sneered. "Well, since her valiant saviour so casually abandoned his Mudblood, and Snape ordered us to take care of her... I guess, we just have to obey him, right boys?"

"Yes, sir! Yes, Master!" mimicked Crabbe and Goyle in unison.

.

Rogue Magic

Snape watched the bony, naked boy running frantically ahead with much satisfaction. Potter was finally getting what he deserved, and the Potions teacher could almost smell the arrogant brat's terror. Perhaps that swagger would finally be crushed out as they approached the top of the marble staircase and the tumult of excitedly chattering students reached his ears. But just as he was about to exult in triumph, a loud crack from a large stone urn at the side of the corridor caused him to whirl around, wand in hand. The sturdy ornament now had a long split almost cutting it in half.

"Who did that!" he demanded, annoyed that any student dared to blatantly use destructive magic in his presence.

The air began to whirl, and a deep, dull noise rumbled through the stone slabs underfoot, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a suit of armour toppling. He caught it with a hovering charm but the shrieks from below stairs told him he was missing Potter's final crushing humiliation.

Naked, Harry ran squealing down the steps and through the crowds in the Entrance Hall. He had to obey – had to get dressed – only then could he return to see if Hermione was safe. He himself deserved to suffer, but Hermione was innocent, so his hatred of Malfoy seethed and grew and exploded within him until he wished the Slytherin was utterly dead! But now he was surrounded by howls of laughter mixed with cries of revulsion. GIRLS! How he wished he still couldn't see every tiny contortion of their expressions of disgust! All pointing – one tripped him – he rolled over, trying to cover himself with his hands – someone pointed a wand – Harry's forearms became limp as dead fish – he used his elbows to scramble back to his feet – Professor McGonagall's voice raged – stumbling, sobbing, he felt he was bursting with shame, hate, fear, and total self-loathing – and all caused by MALFOY! Even the walls seemed to be shaking with his fury. And then. The final disgrace...

Just as he dived down the basement stairs into relative calm away from the howling wolves above, a single figure was ascending towards him: a figure with blonde hair and pigtails.

Shocked senseless, Hannah shrunk back from him as he brushed past – she sliding down the sidewall in a dead faint. He heard her tumble and had to stop. The girl lay strewn like a rag doll across several steps above him. The distraught boy felt compelled to help her – yet he was so exposed! – and he also needed to protect Hermione! And he'd been ordered to get dressed first and MUST obey!

There was no choice but try to lift the girl and carry her back to the Hufflepuff common room. But Harry Potter was as scrawny as an eight-year-old, and Hannah – though slender – was heavy in his arms which were still rubbery from the hexing he'd received in the Entrance Hall. Somehow he managed to half-drag, half-collapse, half-lift the limp figure along the endless Kitchen Corridor and into the Hufflepuff Basement, hoping someone might help her. But everyone had gone for lunch; the room was empty.

The boy was exhausted, He dragged Hannah partly onto a broad sofa in the empty common room, then, with a final effort, hooked one arm under her knees and swivelled most of the rest of the girl onto the seat. His weakened arm was trapped! With a shock he saw one blonde pigtail trailed across his bare shoulder. He'd never been this close to her before. Or any girl! EVER! His sharpened vision could see every hair, every curve of each braid – each single pore on her pale cheeks – the tip of her tongue as it protruded between parted lips!

Breath on his face jolted him back to action – she was alive! He tugged, trying to free his arm. Again. And again. Her eyes opened – Hannah screamed and writhed and wriggled – Harry came free and jumped back and up onto his feet – her mouth fell open in astonishment at the sight of his–

–She screamed hysterically and her eyes rolled up giddily in their sockets.

"_sorry,_" whimpered Harry, and ran for the dormitory stair.

Through a haze, she watched him streak away, wondering if she were dreaming, then a dizzy swoon took her once more, and she knew no more.

.

The Unspeakable Horror

When Harry finally rushed back up to the forgotten reading room, he was ready to collapse with exhaustion. "_Hermione?_" he croaked, near inaudibly.

"Go away!" her voice squeaked from behind the furthest bookshelf.

He approached cautiously. She was curled up in a ball in the corner, clothes badly torn and hugging herself. "Don't look at me! I can't bear it if you... please go away, Harry, I'm horrible, disgusting..."

His knees sagged him down to the floor beside her, wishing he could see her face. "_I... I don't... not horrible, Hermione._"

The poor girl looked utterly... broken. For one moment, Harry wondered if they'd – no they couldn't have! – impossible! – she was a girl! – to be forced to dance like he had been? NEVER! He wanted to reach out a hand to comfort her ... but wondered where on earth he could have felt such a strange– "_What did they–_"

"–Don't ask! Never speak of this again, ever! I don't want to see you anymore. Keep away from me!" She knew he must obey.

.

Quaking

Harry knew now that Hermione must despise him for his cowardice! As he trudged despairingly back downstairs, he began to notice strange differences around the castle he'd not noticed during his dash of naked terror: splits in wooden panelling, statues out of kilter, whole stone blocks inched out from the walls here and there. And dust. Lots and lots of stone dust coating everything. A major disturbance had taken place; had there been an earthquake?

By the time he'd almost reached the corner of the first-floor corridor, he was nearly at a standstill, gazing about in all directions at each new rip in the carpet, and the fragments of masonry everywhere. It was a shock then, when Draco Malfoy almost collided with him. The Slytherin stared at Harry, hesitated as if he were going to speak, then suddenly hurried off in a new direction – but not before Harry noticed the vivid scratch on his neck. That proved it in Harry's mind; the Slytherins had used force, and Hermione had fought back!

"POTTER!" Professor McGonagall blocked the turn, larger than life. "How DARE you carry out such unspeakable– come with me. NOW!"

So that's why Malfoy had run off! He must have seen the Deputy Headmistress approaching and didn't want to get involved in any kind of confrontation.

Harry's thoughts were in a whirl as he was led along an unfamiliar route and up a spiral stair, where McGonagall knocked and entered as soon as invited. "Albus–"

"–Wonders will never cease! Three out of four Heads of House with complaints about a single student?" said Dumbledore.

Harry cringed into himself, head sunk low as it ought to be. His entire life had been filled with the injustice he deserved, but before him were really important people like the Headmaster, Professor Sprout, and Professor Snape, all glowering at him, with McGonagall pushing him forward from behind!

"Albus!" squeaked the breathless voice of Flitwick from the doorway. "Enormous damage throughout the castle! Whether accidental or– oh!"

"Make that four out of four," said the Headmaster solemnly.

.

Obscure Power

"...And so, because scarcely ten days remain before Christmas," Dumbledore was saying, "my decision is that you, Mr Potter, will spend every night from now until the new year in detention, and consider that a lenient–"

"–Lenient!" cried Snape. "The brat deserves expulsion and a trial before the Wizengamot!"

"Now, now, Severus, the lad is only eleven years old. You can hardly–"

"–But the traumatised youngsters!" shrieked McGonagall. "Never have I–"

"–Miss Abbott will not be the same innocent child after this!" blustered Sprout. "She said the boy was squirming and wriggling naked all over her poor helpless–"

"–And the damage to the castle!" cried Flitwick. "Such power! What if he's a latent Obscurial! I'll be working with the elves all through the holidays to–"

"–I have great confidence in everyone's ability to smooth things over," said Dumbledore graciously. "The boy is here to learn, and if severe discipline is part of that process then so be it."

.

The Anguish of Guilt

If Harry had not already been emotionally broken by the Dursleys, then he certainly was by Hannah Abbot's unrelenting tearful anguish following his despicable mistreatment of her. It was so unfair on the poor girl. She was being forced to attend lessons in the same chamber as his freakishness and no classroom seating was extensive enough for the disturbed girl to distance herself adequately from the source of her torment. He wished – oh how he wished! – that he could be excused those lessons so that Hannah might gain some peace of mind.

Harry's own mind was in turmoil. He wanted to simply disappear just like every comforting, sensible thought that had abandoned his head. And if there had been anything left of his reason after that, then every shred was utterly destroyed by Hermione's revulsion at his presence. Certainly she avoided each part of the castle where he might be, and even skipped lessons which were common to them both. She might have been on the other side of the world, for Harry scarcely glimpsed her now.

Detentions and the Christmas break were a welcome penance from the pressure of his guilt, ruined only by his dread of the students' return in January...

.

Vision at the Shrine

"It is with regret," began the Headmaster at the first dinner of the new year, "that I have to inform you that three of our students have fallen ill over the holidays. What began as mild stomach upsets escalated into more serious, and very painful intestinal disruptions, resulting in hospitalisation in St. Mungo's. Because of the tiniest possibility these might be the... side effect of an unusual burst of... accidental magic," – here Dumbledore glared over his half-moon spectacles at Harry – "all students and staff are required to suffer a full medical examination by Madam Pom–"

–He was drowned out by an enormous outcry from every side of the Great Hall. Children and adults were on their feet shouting their protests. Several minutes passed before the hubbub was subdued enough for the Headmaster to continue...

"This has proved necessary because of the unknown nature of the malady and the risk of... of... deterioration. That is all. Thank you."

Immediately he finished making the announcement, heads began to swivel about as students tried to see who was missing – but everyone at the Slytherin table already knew: it was Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle who were absent, and there was no doubt in their mind that the cause was NOT too much Christmas pudding.

The days that followed were a nightmare for the broken boy. If the aftermath of his Sorting had been a barrage of revulsion and hate, and if the result of his disgraceful, brazenly-naked romp through the school had doubled the outrage, then all that paled into insignificance compared to the extreme loathing now heaped upon him. He was unable to walk anywhere without being tripped, jinxed, hexed, pushed, or punched. Yellow lilies were often thrown at him, and his persecutors made it clear they were not given in love, though Harry had no idea that to a Magical they represented a cowardly death. The boy was in a daze. His final refuge – the cupboard where he slept at night – had been wrecked and spiked.

Seeking relief elsewhere, he spent the nights up in the forgotten reading room where he recited words from books and pretended that Hermione was there to praise his growing skill. _Well done, Harry!_ she whispered in his mind, and _Oh, you wrote that so neatly!_ In the far corner, behind the farthest bookshelf, he'd carefully placed every yellow lily he'd managed to gather as a memorial to Hermione's suffering. There he knelt, and if the poor boy had ever been taught to pray, why, then he would have prayed for forgiveness. Instead, he wept.

"Harry?"

The familiar voice was soft as the velvet night. Harry twisted around on one knee, heart breaking, not daring to believe who might be just around the bend, and yet...

It surely must be Hermione!

She approached the corner of the shelving very cautiously, twisting her fingers together nervously. "I'd heard they'd destroyed your... uumm... where you sleep. I wondered if I'd find you here in–"

As she came fully round the corner her eyes took in the heaps of yellow flowers, and understanding seized her emotions. "Oh, Harry!"

The girl was swift to kneel down with the boy and embrace him in a gentle hug. Never had Harry been held like this before, nor so tenderly. And by a girl in a nightgown! He shuddered deliciously and wondered if girls' clothing somehow magically transformed directly into night attire – because, of course, it was unthinkable that they ever undressed.

"_I'm so sorry, Hermione,_" he murmured into her hair in his usual, near-inaudible whisper.

"Not your fault, Harry," she breathed back, "not at all."

"I deserve to suffer," he added, as if he'd not heard her.

She pulled back a little without letting go and gazed into his eyes. "Harry, listen to me, it was NOT your fault – it was... it was... mine."

"_Yours?"_ He shook his head. How could that be? She was just trying to be... _nice_.

"That potions book I'd been reading was quite... dark." She paused, gathering herself to reveal what might result in her incarceration or even death if it were made public. "When I reached into my pocket that night, I wasn't retrieving my wand."

Harry wondered what she meant.

"I'd prepared a sachet of _Maiden's Retribution_, not realising how powerful..." She sniffled for a few moments before continuing. "I clawed into the paste to trap a little under my fingernails. At the first opportunity I scratched Goyle. They tried to take turns but... I clawed all three of them. They acted strangely... walked away without harming me.

"_they... you weren't...?"_ Harry hugged her back and began to cry with relief that she'd not been made to dance; his burden of guilt had been very great indeed.

"_Oh, Harry..._" she breathed, rubbing his back.

She waited a long time before continuing, not wishing to break the magical moment with bad news. Finally, she braced herself. "But it was only after the Headmaster's announcement that I fully realised what I'd done. It's a cursed potion, you see: a slow-acting form of the entrail-expelling curse. I stupidly thought it was just a harmless purgative that would compel them to run to the bathroom. I should have known a curse could never be used as a mild healing spell..."

Harry frowned, looking puzzled.

"Well, don't you see, Harry? Day by day their _intestines_ are gradually being exuded out through their pores, and nothing and no one can stop the process."

Horrified, Harry recoiled. "_they're... dying?"_

"One of the most agonising deaths imaginable."

"_I wished Malfoy dead – still do. I'm glad they're all dying!"_

"Oh, Harry..." She realised in that moment how utterly broken the boy really was. Somehow, she had to find a way to truly help him, to heal his mind and body, if such was even possible at all.

.

Exonerated

But for the rest of the spring term up until Easter, Harry Potter remained a hopeless case. He'd been too scared to mount his broom in flying lessons, he'd suffered painful headaches in several of Quirrell's Defence classes, ran squealing from Binns, the ghostly History Professor, failed to brew a single potion correctly, never cast a spell successfully in Transfiguration or Charms, and, despite his trowel and weeding skills, trembled uselessly several paces away from the more lively magical plants whenever they threatened to bite, sting, or otherwise maim him.

He continued to be reviled by other students, although Hannah Abbot had begun to regard him with something like pity, which Harry considered progress, even if she still wouldn't speak to him or even sit in his half of any classroom. Only faithful Hermione would be seen with him.

"Harry, you need to stand up to people. You don't _have_ to obey anyone except teachers. I mean, what if someone told you to jump off the roof? You'd do it, wouldn't you?"

Harry bit his lip nervously and nodded. Dudley had done exactly that when he was nine years old, and only the compost heap had saved his life. He watched as she carefully showed him yet again how to produce a light in their Charms class, but all he could manage was a tiny glitter that blinked out almost immediately. Still, he looked hopefully at Hermione for a word of encouragement.

"That was really just a spark stuck on the end of your wand, Harry," she said glumly.

The disappointment in her tone crushed his heart. He really, really wanted to do magic for her, but how?

"You lack self-confidence, is all. You've always been dragged down, and everyone glaring and sneering at you doesn't help."

However, soon after the spring break there was astonishing news given out in the Daily Prophet delivered at breakfast. While Crabbe and Goyle had deteriorated into mad terrors and finally succumbed to death, Malfoy had clung on after receiving special treatment. His father, determined that someone should be accountable for his son's suffering, had demanded and authorised Draco's memories to be scanned by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement while he still had a few of his innards left to keep him alive.

But the evidence did not help the Malfoy cause at all: the memories revealed that Draco had mercilessly tormented and humiliated the mentally-disabled Harry Potter by vanishing all his clothes, thus forcing him to return naked through the school to his dormitory. The exposure hadn't been Potter's fault at all. The accidental, immature magic resulting from this severe emotional trauma had naturally rebound upon his vile persecutors, triggering an unknown form of curse. No other explanation appeared possible because it was well known at Hogwarts that Potter had never yet cast any spell with his wand, let alone such an advanced one.

The front-page photograph of Harry tearfully skipping jerkily about naked while Draco, Crabbe and Goyle clapped in time caused several Slytherins to burst out laughing – but they were alone. Most everyone else was disgusted by the excessive abuse, and shocked by the extreme cruelty against a feeble innocent. After this there was less directly aggressive action against Harry. Most students hung their heads as he passed by, while others at least curtailed their spite. Hannah almost sat opposite him at breakfast one morning, but lost her nerve at the final moment.

Hermione still felt a righteous obligation to support Harry any way that she could even if it was only with his reading and writing in their little book room.

"_Can you help me with my spelling, Hermione?"_ whispered Harry, after a few days had passed.

She frowned at the greetings card he held out. "What... what _is_ that?"

"_made it from pictures in Witch's Weekly._" he said proudly.

"But for who? It's a 'Thinking of you' card."

"_Draco. I've been thinking about him a lot._"

"But... but... that's not what..." She opened the card and gasped. "Did you draw this dagger?"

"_and the little drops of blood round the edges – see? Is everything spelt right?"_

Shocked to the core, Hermione softly read it out, hardly believing the words she was voicing: "_I know what it's like to be in awful pain, completely helpless and without any hope and _**_wishing you were dead._**_ I'm glad you are suffering and dying, Draco. I hope it hurts ten times as much as you hurt other people. When..._" –Hermione paused to compose herself – "_When you die, people will be happy. You are wicked and will go to hell and suffer forever with missing guts and I hope they make you eat them over and over with strong vinegar. I think about you a lot now your life is coming to an end and your worse than a freak._"

Silence.

"Hermione? Is it spelt right?"

"Harry, you can't..."

"Can't what, Hermione?"

She shook herself, astonished at her own feelings. "You can't spell _your worse than a freak_ like that. You mean _you are_ worse so it should be abbreviated to you–apostrophe–re so it's _you're_. Otherwise it's fine."

Harry nodded and managed to squeeze in the correction. "I hope it makes him feel really sick when he reads it."

As if in a trance, Hermione heard herself saying, "So do I, Harry, so do I."

.

Reaching Out

At the end of June, Quirrell departed – some said there'd been a mishap in the third-floor corridor – and not too long after, the students poured eagerly onto the platform at Hogsmeade station, ready to board the Hogwarts Express.

The sun was bright, the atmosphere elevated, but Harry's head hung low. Hermione was nowhere to be seen. He knew her parents would be at King's Cross to welcome their daughter; would she even want them to see there was still a freak in the same carriage as herself? Would she even wish him goodbye?

"Have a nice holiday, Harry," whispered a timid voice from behind. He whirled around to see Hannah Abbot scurrying away, too scared to wait for his response. And why shouldn't she be? Harry thought, after she'd woken that day to find him naked and handling her so wickedly – he shuddered despite the warm weather. Few days passed when he didn't have nightmares about his humiliation before everyone, but his close physical contact with Hannah made that experience doubly shameful. What if he'd not–

"–Harry? I was hoping you'd have waited for me in the Entrance Hall. I had to read a letter from..." Hermione was expertly hovering her travel trunk behind her at ankle height, while the platform still bore the marks where Harry had dragged his through the dust. "What's wrong? I received an owl from my parents and..."

"_Uh, uh..._"

"Please speak to me, Harry. I'm sorry I'm a bit late but..."

"_Uh..._"

Hermione chewed on her lip. "I asked them if you could stay with us for the holidays. Would you like to? We could go for walks and ... and there's lots of events in London to enjoy – oh, you must come! Please say you will!"

Harry lifted his head in astonishment. "_Me? At your home, you mean?"_

"Yes, I thought you might want to... but it's alright if you–"

–Harry did something nobody could ever have imagined one year before; he reached out to Hermione with his arms extended forward as if to hug her. At full stretch his brash momentum failed him and the arms drooped. Shocked, he stood trembling. What had he been thinking? Then Hermione stepped forward to hold him tight, and he was sniffling with happiness.

Hermione smiled. Her face was all wet from his tears but she didn't mind. Summer was here at last! And she had a friend to stay with her!

.

—oOo—

.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_Bigger chapter this week but I'm moving home next weekend so won't have internet for a day or two. No chance of another chapter for a week or so after that I guess, because I'll be busy setting up home. _

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**– Hippothestrowl**

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	4. Cruel Separation

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_So far... Broken by the Dursleys' extreme cruelty, the bewildered Harry Potter is further traumatised at Hogwarts. Only Hermione shows him kindness – though he's isolated in Hufflepuff. A shared cruel detention with Snape brings them closer, and she teaches him to read and write in a far-off reading room. Draco and his gang find and humiliate Harry by forcing him to strip, then turn on Hermione. In self-defence, she scratches them with poison. At the end of an eventful year, she invites Harry to her home for the summer holidays. Now read on... _

.

**Chapter 4**

**Cruel Separation**

* * *

.

An Unnatural Meal

Harry Potter was too broken to fully experience happiness; his best hope was for a few moments with less pain and fear.

Mrs Granger had taken a great deal of trouble preparing a welcoming dinner for her daughter's return, especially since she was bringing a schoolfriend. They'd met him previously of course, and Hermione had kept them informed about Harry – but they had no real idea what to expect. "There's a seat for you here, Harry, next to Hermione."

The boy stared in confusion. This was a family meal, a sacred gathering that must not be intruded upon by something as unnatural as himself. Nervously he looked around for an escape, then settled on the floor in a corner where there was a cat bowl – larger and far less dirty than his own cracked saucer back at the Dursleys.

Frowning, Mr Granger rose to his feet. "What are you–"

"–Let me, dear," said his wife. "Now, Harry, wouldn't you like to sit with us at the table?"

"_uh ... uh..._"

Mrs Granger whispered aside to Hermione, "I thought you said he could speak, darling?"

"He's just nervous," hissed Hermione. "I told you he only obeys uumm... orders."

Mr Granger growled, "Harry, you MUST sit with us at the table – I insist!"

Harry's jaw quivered as his anguish increased, but he stood up, in a hunched, cowering kind of stance, and crept towards them.

"Look, no, STOP! STOP!" cried Hermione. "You're hurting him."

"What!" thundered Mr Granger. "We are not _animals!_ NOBODY'S eating on the floor in _MY_ house!"

Harry took a step back in alarm, trembling in anticipation of punishment.

"I thought you said your friend ate at table in the school?" Hermione's mother asked her.

A doubtful look crossed Harry's face. He'd never met any of Hermione's friends – wasn't even sure she had any – who did Mrs Granger mean? Then it dawned on him. She was a Ravenclaw and must have plenty of really clever friends like Josey and Laura from their first-year train journey! Non-freakish friends who could read and write and speak properly, and with whom he could not possibly compare favourably. They'd have interesting things to talk about, while he, Harry Potter must be just a curious pet she occasionally mentioned in a kind of offhand, dismissive way so as to distance herself from him. Did they talk about him? Laugh? The Grangers were whispering even now...

"_He doesn't sit really close to anyone, and not with... well this is erm... different. I think a family situation is different. Uumm. yes... different,_" Hermione was saying.

"Then he can damned well camp out in the–" Mr Granger paused. "Hermione, fetch in that plastic garden table and a chair, the fold-up ones we took camping last year."

"Good idea," said Mrs Granger.

Within the minute, Hermione returned and asked – no politely _told_ – Harry, to set it down as near to the dinner table as would be comfortable for him.

Mr Granger's eyes rolled skyward when Harry placed it just outside the open doorway to the kitchen.

"Well, it's a start!" pouted Hermione.

Harry could tell she was ashamed of him. After all, he was abnormal. Perhaps he ought to have moved the table just out of sight nearer the pedal bin.

.

The Girl, the Book, and the Cauldron

However, Hermione had been right about Harry starting to improve under her guidance – albeit incredibly slowly. By the end of summer, she'd inched his small garden table nearer and nearer until it was directly touching the Grangers' dining table. True, Harry could not yet bring himself to actually sit _with_ the family at _their_ table like a _normal_ person, but Hermione had a sneaky plan to gradually extend the tablecloth over the plastic to make it seem as if there was only one table. Perhaps, she told herself, she could find a 'creep' spell in a book when they went to Diagon Alley to fetch their school supplies.

In the meantime, they spent every day together, with Hermione encouraging Harry to talk to her. She learnt of the systematic cruelty he'd endured from a young age at the Dursleys' home. How he'd never been registered for Muggle school and rarely even left the house until he was eleven. The Ministry of Magic had no knowledge of his circumstances or even his whereabouts. And he was completely unknown to Muggle Social Services, having secretly been taken in by his aunt after the death of his parents. Hermione became more determined than ever to help him if she could. But how?

Close to the end of August, they entered Flourish and Blotts and began searching the shelves for the books they'd need. The place was packed with students and their parents, jostling and chattering; Harry struggled to stay with the Grangers.

"_Hermione?"_ he whispered in his usual, near-inaudible voice.

But Hermione had been distracted. Over someone's shoulder, Harry could see her face gazing dreamily at a man with wavy golden hair and gleaming white teeth. Harry didn't like the look of him, nor the way Hermione was staring at the handsome wizard's face.

Harry managed to edge away to the far side of the room, where it was quieter. A little girl with long red hair and not much bigger than himself was standing next to a cauldron in which were several schoolbooks that Harry recognised from his first year at Hogwarts. She gave him a timid smile, then her eyes widened in recognition and her face turned quite pink. He backed away. He'd seen that look before when small children were frightened by his freakishness. He hoped her aunt and uncle didn't beat her, nor keep her in a cupboard, and let relatives play horrible, horrible tricks on her! He shuddered and was backing even further away so as not to scare her anymore when–

"–Watch where you're– POTTER!" thundered a voice.

As Harry turned, he saw where his shoulder blade had been jabbed by a shabby little book now being swiftly hidden up the voluminous sleeve of–

"–Despicable cretin! Murderer!" snarled the man, grabbing Harry by the arm and flinging him into the little girl who had been shocked by the outburst. "You killed my son yet you–" He stopped in mid-flow. The girl's cauldron had been overturned spilling her books onto the floor which she was now scrabbling to recover.

"Here!" The man stooped as if to help, grabbing one of the larger books and thrusting it back into the cauldron. "Take more care of your–"

"–Lucius! What's going on here?" A man with balding red hair was glaring their way, and accompanied by several other young redheads.

"Recklessness, Arthur. Not content with bringing about my son's death, Potter here rushed clumsily at me, but bounced back, causing even more havoc. Seems he causes trouble wherever he goes! APOLOGISE, Potter!"

Harry, who had shrivelled down as small as he could, dared to glance upwards. He gasped. The man's likeness to Draco, including the blond hair, was unmistakable. "_sorry..._" he whispered in a tiny voice.

"My business here is done," growled Mr Malfoy, then hissed down at Harry, "_But not with you and your vile, poisonous pen! That card finally broke my son's will to live!"_

Harry held his breath as he watched the man stride out of the bookshop, then turned. He wanted to help the little girl gather up the rest of her books, but she was too pretty, and he too timid. He wanted to warn her about the shabby black book he'd seen Mr Malfoy slip into her cauldron. Harry's own sufferance of trickery alerted him to–

"–I'll help you, Ginny," said one of the brothers who was scowling at Harry. "That's the useless puff who stole Scabbers. I know he did!"

_Scabbers? What were scabbers? They sounded like the nasty sandpaper wound-scrapers Dudley used on his own almost-healed injuries,_ Harry thought, but then he was used to being framed for stealing strange things he'd never even heard of, and anyway, Mr Malfoy's curious book was far more important! Perhaps he might tell one of the older boys – but no, they were all scowling at him because they knew now it was all his fault the cauldron had been overturned! Wasn't it? He inched back behind a bookshelf... But what if the strange book was full of spidery things? Or worse – rude words he'd not yet learnt to spell! Unthinkable words! Words that girls never knew! And Ginny looked so naive and innocent that–

"–SOD OFF, RON! I told you it wasn't his fault!"

"Ginny! Don't let Mum catch you talking like that!"

"Don't worry, she won't!"

"Harry, I've got your books and–" Hermione's voice was at his side. "What's happening?"

Harry explained in breathy whispers what had taken place, and about the book he'd seen Mr Malfoy put in Ginny's cauldron. "Suppose it's a wicked story? She'd be terribly–"

"–You have to tell them, Harry! Look, they're leaving!"

He bit hard on his lower lip and shook his head. What if they laughed at him? What if they poked him? What if the girl thought he was silly? What if–

"–Mr Weasley!" Hermione ran to the doorway.

Harry crept further inside the shop, seeking sanctuary. Perhaps there might be a dark corner somewhere...

.

The Lying, The Witch, and The Cupboard

"Can I help you, Madam?"

"I hope so, my daughter was looking for uumm..." – Mrs Granger shuffled uncomfortably – "a kind of erm... magical _pulling_ spell? It's for a tablecloth so–"

"–The fourth-year shelves are all sold out. Could you come back this afternoon?"

"Hermione! Over here! Mr...?"

"Blott."

"Hermione, Mr Blott might have a book later that–"

"–_This_ is your daughter?" snapped Mr Blott.

"That's right. Hermione, Mr Blott is–"

"–I'm sorry, Madam, but the summoning charm you want is fourth-year. Your daughter couldn't possibly–"

"–So there _is_ a spell? Might I try?" cried Hermione. "I'm much older than I look and it's really important."

Mrs Granger frowned at her daughter's fib, but nodded in support. "That's right, she's nearly erm... fourteen."

Blott shook his head resignedly. "If you're that desperate to waste your money then come back later this–"

"–You have it in stock?" said Mrs Granger. "Surely you could...?"

Mr Blott stared down at the diminutive girl bouncing up and down eagerly on her heels. "Oh, very well. Come this way."

He led them through a door at the back of the shop into a room stacked with boxes, and opened one of the many store cupboards. There was a little boy crouched inside, trembling.

"Harry!" cried Hermione. "We've been looking everywhere for you! Dad's out searching up and down Diagon Alley!"

"This... _boy_ is with you?" Mr Blott's shoulders drooped. It had been a very busy day.

.

Missing Creatures

The inner corridor of the Hogwarts Express was a tight fit. Harry watched in admiration as Hermione hovered his trunk on top of her own so she could float them along together.

"Please lead the way, Harry." The girl continued to hope Harry would learn some initiative, but she still had most success by giving him a specific order rather than a request. "Find an empty compartment if you can."

Harry bit his lip. He was a follower not a leader. His steps were as cautious as any jungle adventurer. After only a few minutes he came to an abrupt halt. "_creepy-crawly..._" He pointed ahead, shuddering.

"Oh for heaven's–!" Hermione struggled to be patient sometimes. "It's just a toad – that Gryffindor boy's remember?" She lowered the trunks then, bringing to mind the new fourth-year spell she learned, took careful aim with her wand. "Accio toad!"

Harry ducked fearfully. Hermione's skills were impressive but she could be scary sometimes. Towards the end of the holidays, he'd watched the Grangers' tablecloth creeping nearer but had pretended not to notice.

"I suppose we'll have to find its owner," she sighed.

With Harry now lagging behind, she poked her head into each compartment they passed. "Anyone seen a boy who's lost a toad?" They had success in the next carriage...

"Trevor!"

Harry recognised him as a boy who shared his Herbology lessons. He'd helped Harry once with a spiky bush that had become irritable. He was the sole occupant so Hermione floated their baggage up onto the racks. "You need to–"

"–take more care, I know," said the boy. "Someone in my dorm had his rat run off last year when– erm... I'm Neville Longbottom, by the way."

"Hermione Granger, and this is Harry Potter. I didn't know they allowed rats." Hermione frowned. "When what?"

"Pardon?"

"His rat ran off when what?"

"Oh, nothing..."

Hermione noticed Neville had glanced nervously at Harry. "Was this the day that...?" She cocked her head sideways at Harry.

Neville flushed and nodded. Nobody ever mentioned Harry's naked sprint through the Great Hall, but Hermione knew that's what it was about. Two girls with the shakes had been withdrawn from Hogwarts by their parents after that episode.

The train jerked into motion and for several moments they adjusted to the movement and listened to the new sounds.

"What's his name?" said Hermione, eager to try out her summoning spell once more.

"Ron Weasley."

"I mean his rat."

"Oh, uumm... Scabbers."

Hermione noticed Harry stiffen, and she herself thought she'd heard that name somewhere – yes, the shouting that had drawn her attention in Flourish and Blotts. "What is it, Harry?"

Harry lowered his head and whispered, "_He said I stole it, but I didn't._"

"You can talk!" cried Neville.

"Of course he can talk," snapped Hermione. "And read and write! Why?"

"Oh, nothing... I just thought..." His face brightened suddenly. "My magic didn't come out till I was nearly ten so..." He stopped and pretended to look at some huge Muggle advertising posters passing by the window.

"Harry can do magic," said Hermione defensively. "You'll see." But inwardly she wondered. Would he ever?

.

A Taste of Happiness

"Weasley, Ginevra!"

Harry watched the little redheaded girl Sorted into Gryffindor. She was pretty, so he'd been hoping she'd be in Hufflepuff. All girls were pretty he thought to himself. Dudley had said it was so they could trick you while they pulled down your pants. He'd begun to wonder now if that was really true.

"Aren't you hungry?"

Harry looked up, startled. Hannah Abbot was sitting opposite him again. And she'd spoken to him! He nodded and ducked his head to stare down at his knees, hoping she'd give him permission to eat or he'd have to sneak into the house-elves kitchen when he could. They always insisted he help himself to whatever he wanted, so he had to do as he was told by his superiors.

"Try the prawns and rice – it's scrumptious."

His face lit up and he took a bite of the delicious meal. "_thank you._"

She smiled.

Deep feelings stirred within the boy. Girls really had such lovely faces. He sensed the trap of course, but could not resist. He smiled timidly back. It seemed worth it even if she had put something dreadful in the rice. For one brief moment their eyes locked. Excitement swooped up within him; it was the same sensation he'd experienced when she'd swooned at his nakedness alone in the Hufflepuff common room. He wondered about that. It had been the worst shame of his life, and yet–

"–It's really nice, isn't it?" she said with such gentle sincerity that he wished he could believe it were real.

He gulped, swallowed, and wondered why he was crying.

.

The Wishful Witness

From the Ravenclaw table, Hermione stared over the top of her steaming goblet. She'd watched Harry drool as that Weasley hussy was sorted; now he was positively leering bright-eyed at Hannah! What was she saying to him? He was so gullible and easy to manipulate he'd do anything for her. _Anything!_

"Granger, when you've finished eating–"

–And bloody Abbott was leaning across with her arm outstretched behind that turnip tureen! Was she ordering Harry to hold her hand! Even _stroking_ his fingertips with hers? The bitch! Hermione stabbed a fork viciously at her chicken wing salad. _She has no right to–_

"–GRANGER! Pay attention! The Headmaster wishes to see you in his office after dinner."

The fork clattered out of Hermione's hand with its chicken still impaled. "Sorry, Penelope. See _me?_ Whatever for?"

"You'll find out soon enough. My guess is it's about that Potter boy. What have you two been up to? Word to the wise, Granger, don't cross the Headmaster. He's the gentlest, most kindhearted person you could wish to meet but–"

"–Penny!" called another prefect who was assembling the Ravenclaw first-years ready to show them up to their tower.

"Coming..."

.

The Seeds of Fury

Hermione worried over the rest of her meal before reluctantly making her way upstairs. She found the Headmaster's office was already crowded as she cautiously pushed open the door.

"Ah, come in, Miss Granger," said Professor Dumbledore. There was a calm but severe blue gleam in his eyes that conveyed... triumph. "Mr Potter has just confessed to us that you forced him to run away from home over the holidays, and, I might add, encouraged and supported his writing of a poison pen letter to a vulnerable, dying child.

"WHAT!" Hermione's eyes flashed angrily as she scanned the room: Harry looking utterly crushed and shrunken in a low chair, Lucius Malfoy gloating fury, Ron Weasley sneering with what looked like his ugly fat mother seething next to him, every Head of House frowning their displeasure and disappointment, and an old lady that Hermione did not recognise.

"Mrs Figg here informs me that young Harry was not at home for the entirety of the–"

"–How could she possibly know!" cried Hermione, glaring at the woman. "Harry was never allowed outside, and even if she snooped at the windows, he spent most of his time locked away in a–"

"–You are greatly mistaken," said Dumbledore, staring benignly at the girl over his spectacles. "I have personally taken care to visit and found, if anything, his loving family have spoilt the child."

"NOT TRUE! Harry has–"

"–Miss Granger!" McGonagall shouted her down. "You will show respect for your Headmaster!"

"Now, now," said Mr Malfoy, "I'm sure Granger means the lies coming from Potter's mouth. The miscreant placed a cursed diary in poor Miss Weasley's cauldron, then claimed that it was I that did the deed! Such malice! Such–"

"–And he stole my pet rat," blurted Ron. He seemed to be reciting words he'd learned by rote: "Scabbers is almost human to me. And I loved him dearly. And Potter was jealous. And because he's got nobody! Well nobody normal anyway."

"Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, pulling a book out of his desk drawer and placing it on top. It was small and thin with a shabby black cover. "Did you see Harry put this dark object into Miss Weasley's cauldron?"

"HE DIDN'T! It was–"

"–Did you actually witness the cursed book being foisted on Potter's victim?"

"Of course I – well, no, not as such."

"Then why did you run after Mr Weasley to tell him such an outrageous deceit?"

"Harry told me of course!"

"Ah...!" Dumbledore's sigh seemed to be echoed by most of those present.

The Headmaster leaned forward over his desk, steepling his hands almost in prayer and tapping his forehead with his fingertips as one in deep thought. "In light of your confessions, it falls to me to pass judgement. Firstly, one hundred points will be deducted from both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Secondly, a week of detentions with your Heads of–"

"–Albus," squeaked little Flitwick. "I'd prefer to learn more about–"

"–Very well, Miss Granger will serve her detentions with... let's see now... Professor Snape, and–"

"–_no!_" whimpered Harry, rising to his feet then immediately cowering back down.

"We observe no repentance or remorse in the boy whatsoever!" drawled Mr Malfoy. "A month of detentions is deserved at the very least."

"Much as I would agree with you, Lucius," said Dumbledore, "I value moderation and tolerance above all, by way of example to the other children. I think therefore, two weeks of detention. I'm sure Pomona has many difficult plants that require... a great deal of care."

"Indeed I do, Headmaster!" Madam Sprout rubbed her chubby hands together. "I've not forgotten his perverse exposure on poor Miss Abbott when he squirmed lasciviously about on–"

"–Yes, yes, well, I'm sure you'll be able to straighten the kinks out of the lad," said the Headmaster. "I hear the Venomous Tentacular plants are especially belligerent this year?"

Sprout blanched. "Headmaster! Potter flees from mere stinging nettles! Do you really think...?"

"Yes, Pomona, I do. Regrettably, fear is key to disciplinary reform. I'd be eager to serve the detentions for him myself, of course, but alas, that would not help the boy find his way."

"Is that all!" screamed Mrs Weasley. "What's he done with my Ron's poor, helpless little creature? Poked with pins? Drowned?"

"Calm yourself, Molly. ... Tell me, Harry, do you still refuse to tell us where and what you have done with Young Weasley's pet rat?"

"_uh...?_" Harry shook his head in confusion.

"Very well then. Here is my final judgement. Since you care so little for the affections of others, I order you to have no further contact whatsoever with Miss Granger until you inform us of the whereabouts of the stolen animal."

"But that's not fair!" cried Hermione. "He doesn't know anything about–"

"–SILENCE!" boomed Snape, who had so far kept his input down to sneers and gloating. "Or your cauldron-scrubbing may be... extended."

"You understand the significance of my order, Harry?" continued Dumbledore. "You will not communicate in any way with Miss Granger. Do not exchange messages, do not look at her, and do not even think of her again, is that clear?"

"_uuh..._" whimpered Harry, who had been staring dumbly at the floor for the past few minutes.

"Look at me, Harry. I am ordering you to avoid Miss Granger henceforth and I want your spoken word that you will obey me. Your word, Harry."

When he looked up, Harry's eyes were full of tears. "_yes, sir, I promise ... never to have anything to do with ... Hermione ... ever ag–_"–He burst into floods of tears as he completed his enforced pact with the devil.

"Now I want you to apologise to everybody and show them you are truly remorseful."

Harry's lower lip quivered. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and looked fearfully and swiftly around at all the hostile faces. "_sorry, everyone, sorry..._" he whimpered, before ducking his head once more.

"And now you, Miss Granger, if you would. Swear to not contact Harry and–"

"–NEVER!" cried Hermione. "If you think for one minute that I'd–"

"–Then I shall enforce my order by expelling you from this school and–"

–Harry's squeal of misery broke Hermione's heart and spirit. She turned her face away from him one last time. "I swear I will not approach Harry Potter again."

"And now your apologies, if you will...?"

"What?"

"Miss Granger, you have inconvenienced a great many of us. Please apologise or... else."

Hermione winced. The injustice was so extreme that for several moments she could not bring herself to speak. Finally, she spoke in a cracked, subservient voice, "I'm sorry, everyone, for every wrong I've ever done any of you, and I will try to do better in the future."

"Thank you. That's very gracious of you."

It was a pity that Dumbledore hadn't a clue as to how smart this Ravenclaw girl really was. If he had, he'd have paid more attention to her carefully chosen words. If he thought he'd bested Hermione Granger then he'd got another think coming. The seeds of fury had been sown this day, and the harvest would be dark indeed.

.

—oOo—

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* * *

**Author's Notes**

_Let me just clear up this 'another thing' confusion before anyone says I've got it wrong. You don't say: If you think that pheasant's tail is beautiful, you should see a peacock's 'thing'. Nor do you say: Call that a knife? THIS is a 'thing'. 'Got another think coming' means you'll be forced to rethink the situation, not that you'll get a new THING. What thing? If you think the moon is made of green cheese then you've got another THING coming. Huh? What thing? A parcel from Amazon? A new TV? A taxicab? A coach and four? No, you'll have to THINK again, not THING again. (rant over!) _

_A reader pm'd me a question about what Hermione meant by "he's not a–" when during detention Snape said Harry should learn to keep upright like a real man. She was just trying to point out he was only a boy not a man. _

_Abdullahsaurus wondered how such a mentally damaged version of Harry can be justified and that the premise is hard to believe. That's a good point, and my answer is that this fic is a parody that explores what might happen if the original Harry Potter caricaturisations were pushed to extremes for the purposes of interest, emotion, and entertainment. Unfortunately, there are not enough genre types for me to include all those I wanted (humour, mystery, angst, romance, friendship, crime, etc. etc.) so I originally settled on drama and hurt/comfort. After further consideration, I've changed it to parody and hurt/comfort. This fic is AU and so are the characters. It exaggerates Dumbledore's disregard of the way the Dursleys and Snape emotionally tortured Harry (which was never realistic in the first place. Most of the school turning against Harry in Books 2 and 4 in particular, with the staff turning a blind eye never made much sense. Hagrid's oafish stupidity (placing young children at extreme risk of injury and death from very dangerous creatures) was never meant to be taken as realistic truth. The dull drone of Binns is yet another crazy caricature that is fun rather than 'believable'. Yes, my parody twists the blade of reality much deeper, but ask yourself if the story holds your interest? Is it boring or do you wish to know what will happen to Harry as Voldemort returns and gathers strength? Do you find yourself immersed sufficiently to carry on through your disbelief?._

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**– Hippothestrowl**

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	5. Coming Together

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_So far... Broken by the Dursleys' extreme cruelty into obedience without question, the bewildered Harry Potter is further traumatised at Hogwarts. Only Hermione shows him kindness – though he's isolated in Hufflepuff. At the end of year one, she invites Harry home for summer, but, back at Hogwarts for year two, Dumbledore demands they keep apart. Now read on... _

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**Chapter 5**

**Coming Together**

* * *

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Morsels of Hope

A dreadful week passed by during which, although Hermione risked glances in Harry's direction, such was his bond of servitude that the poor boy never dared look back. From a luxurious golden chair centred at the staff tables, the Headmaster shook his head sadly and, with a brush of magical fingers, plumped up several fat cushions to his greater comfort. Nobody appreciated the burden he had to endure of imposing necessary discipline for the greater good.

Hermione learned that she had never wept thus far in her life – not like she now did when alone, not to this unendurable extent. If _that_ pain did not break her, she hoped the worst periods might make her stronger. At the best moments, the misery was only a dull pain in her heart that drove her to more vigorously search for a more secure meeting place where nobody could find her with Harry. The smart girl knew Harry often visited the kitchens after nobody at regular meals in the Great Hall had told him to eat, so there she patiently waited.

Late on the Saturday afternoon, she was completing her History homework on an unused flour rack because most of the tables were being used to prepare dinner. She glanced up from time to time as the door opened, but disappointment always dipped her head thereafter.

"Is young miss in want for anything?" asked a young elf, wringing hands with that form of troubled eagerness common to her kind.

"I've been hoping to meet Harry here; he can't be eating well if he–"

"–Harry Potter, miss?" said the elf in amazement. "Professor _Sneveris_ is forbidding Harry Potter from–"

"–Professor Snape? Professor Snape has banned Harry from coming here? He might as well ban him from eating! You must do something. You must help Harry get food! And TELL him to eat!"

"We is, Miss," said the elf, squirming even more nervously. "We is passing master Harry small morsels in the corridors at every opportunity."

Hermione's shoulders relaxed their stiffness somewhat. She knew a 'small morsel' to a house-elf was probably a turkey leg and buttered rolls at least. She sighed to herself. "I wish there was somewhere I could speak to him without anyone finding us."

The elf's big eyes bulged happily. "Is the Come and Go Room, miss!"

"The what?"

"The Room of Requirement. Is a room you is only entering when you have real need of it. Sometimes there, sometimes not, but when it appears, is always meets your needs."

Hermione stared at the little elf in wonder. "Show me. And then ask – no, INSIST that Harry go there SECRETLY tonight after dinner. But do not mention me at all. And send food! Lots of morsels of food!"

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Harry's Den

Clipboard in hand, Hermione stared at the tapestry on the seventh floor corridor and wondered how the wizard Barnabas could be so barmy as to attempt to teach trolls to dance the ballet. A patter of sound caught her attention: footsteps! She squashed back into the shadows and held her breath.

A small figure crept around the corner and paused.

Hermione hissed softly but firmly between her teeth, "You MUST come here, Harry!"

With that insistence, the boy HAD to move forward, eyes widening as Hermione emerged into the light of a flickering wall torch. His eyes and mouth gaped wide but his voice was still a tiny whisper. "_you swore, Hermione! to the Headmaster!"_

"Word by duress, is worth–less," she said in a sing-song voice. "I've found us a secret meeting place, Harry! One where nobody can ever find us!"

Her excitement was infectious. Harry could scarcely believe what was taking place. This was the happiest–

"–Well, well, well!" came a voice from around the corner. "Looks like we've found us a couple of very serious rule-breakers!"

Harry squeaked and ran behind Hermione as two tall fourth-years stepped into the corridor. Only when the light caught their hair was its distinctive redness made clear.

"What do you think, George?" said one of them to the other, pounding a fist into the palm of the opposite hand.

"I think they are just the sort of people we target most, Fred!"

"W–Weasleys!" stammered Hermione. "Why don't you leave us alone!"

"Alone?" said George, "when we've come all this way to offer you an olive?"

"Branch, that is," said Fred. "And here it is..."

He held out a piece of parchment. For a few moments she could not make out what was drawn upon it...

"It's a map!"

George looked affronted. "Not just any map, young neophyte rule-breaker-in-training Granger. "This one shows exactly where everyone is – including you!"

He stabbed his finger down onto the map and Hermione could see little dots marked with Harry's and her names. "So that's how you knew we were in that reading room!"

"Exactly. And now it's yours. Use it well."

Hermione felt Harry tugging on her sleeve. "_it's a trap, Hermione. Don't take it!"_

She hesitated. Alarmed, Harry drew his wand for her to emulate and pointed to it, nodding his head at her as if to suggest she be ready to defend them both. Hermione wasn't so sure that would be necessary. "But why, uuh... George?"

"You and Harry here saved our sister from that cursed diary," said Fred. "We won't ever forget that. Anyway, we now know most of this castle's secrets, and your need is greater than ours." Fred grinned and added, "I couldn't have said it better myself, George."

"You just did, Fred," said George.

Tentatively, Hermione took the map. The twins explained how to use it, then bid them goodnight.

With the sound of their footsteps receding into the distance, Harry gestured eagerly at the map. "_see if you can do 'mischief managed' like they said, Hermione._"

Hermione drew in a quick breath as the marks and lines disappeared from the parchment. "You did the magic yourself, Harry! You did magic!"

A strange sensation had distracted Harry's mind, so he didn't understand what she'd meant for a few moments, then he realised he'd prodded the map with his wand. "_it likes me..._"

"The map?"

"Yes, can't you feel it?"

She shook her head, but began thinking furiously. "You keep it then. And see if you can open the Room, Harry! Just walk back and forth three times imagining what you need for us to meet secretly, and somewhere you can sleep at night."

As ever, he obeyed without question. He'd completed five passes, and Hermione was about to give up, when without warning, a faint door began to outline itself in the otherwise blank wall. It was scarcely noticeable, and there was no handle. Harry hesitated, but Hermione pushed inside, and he followed.

The chamber they had entered was a meagre closet lumbered with bare essentials only: a table, unmatched chairs, bookshelves, and a miserable blanket at their feet.

"No!" cried Hermione. "Surely you don't need to sleep on the floor?"

She crouched down to feel how hard it must be and discovered the blanket was covering a sunken mattress.

She shook her head, but Harry's eyes were unusually alight. He found the ultra-snug confines of the storeroom cosy and secure. He'd been given the safe, private den he'd wished for, and that no one could possibly get in but himself and Hermione – because that was his requirement. Something like _happiness_ began to warm his frozen heart, and the mattress inched up very slightly revealing the top of a bed in the ground beneath. He was home!

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A Hopeless Quest

The following days and weeks established a routine. The couple would meet regularly to chat, study together, and complete their homework. Always Hermione struggled the longest, even when Harry, exhausted, had retired to his low berth.

The scholarly girl closed her weary eyes for a few moments, listening to him whimpering in his sleep, then pushed her book away before looking round. His bed had risen another inch above the carpet recently, but he was curled up on it, expression tight and with a film of sweat on his forehead. Did the poor boy not find any peace, even in sleep?

Ultimately, there was only one way to help him: she went back to her investigations. The book she'd been reading had vaguely referenced 'mental growth', but nothing useful had emerged except, perhaps, an abbreviated margin scribble: _LiFE mUch beTTer!_ Whose life? Who had written that? The ink looked almost as ancient as the tattered book itself. Likely she'd never know, but perhaps she'd better try to find the–

"–_UH! UH! UH!"_

"Wake up, Harry, you're dreaming!" She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around herself then crept towards his sleeping, squirming form. There she observed that his deeply-creased forehead was shining with perspiration – what horror had caused such fear?

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Deathly Nightmare

_Harry Potter stared at his skeletal baby hands, then his focus shifted through them to a very short wizard with small, watery eyes and a pointed rat-like snout crouching before him. When Harry finally spoke, his voice was high and cold. "You disappoint me, Wormtail. I was already fully aware of the boy's weak-minded impotence. He is no threat at all, thanks to that meddling old fool. No matter, another enemy was referenced in the Prophecy whose blood can serve me just as well, so your... special abilities may still be of assistance. Dispose of Quirrell's stinking corpse, then bring me the son of Frank Longbottom. I must end his life! Only then might you redeem yourself, and I? – I shall rise victorious once more._

His forehead felt it would burst with the pain. He was being shaken. Someone was screaming...

"Harry! HARRY!"

His eyes blinked open. His pyjamas were soaked in icy sweat. The bed covers were twisted round him and it seemed his scar would–

"–Harry!"

Hermione was standing over him looking extremely frightened. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him ... he rolled right over and dry-retched towards the floor beyond his mattress.

"You were yelling and shrieking, Harry. I didn't know what to– was it a nightmare?"

"_must warn Neville!"_ The weakened boy struggled to get up.

"Harry, wait, was it just a bad dream? Don't tell anyone! They'll think..."

"_must warn..._"

"It's four in the morning. You won't get into the Gryffindor Tower. Wait until breakfast."

"_teacher..._"

"Who? Dumbledore? McGonagall? I don't trust them anymore. And Professor Flitwick could only ask them for me – he can't interfere directly in Gryffindor."

"_you warn him, Hermione._" He revealed the contents of his dream to her then, how an evil baby was planning to murder Neville.

She shook her head. "I'll try to speak to Neville, but... Harry, evil babies and rotting corpses are the stuff of nightmares; he won't take me seriously." She saw alarm expand in his eyes, and relented. "I'll do my best."

"_Promise?"_

"I promise."

Harry subsided then, and sank back onto his sunken bed, exhausted. Hermione cleansed the dampness from his brow and throat then cooled him with her wand. His eyes were closed and he was murmuring in his soft voice, "_Why am I bad, Hermione? Can't I ever be... happy?"_ His eyes flickered open briefly. "_Can _you _make me happy?"_

She choked up without answer, and could only watch as he sagged back forlornly into some kind of dismal half-sleep. Hermione found herself weeping.

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Murderous Intent

Their breakfast plan to warn Neville did not proceed as intended. No sooner had Hermione braced herself to risk McGonagall's indignation by walking to the Gryffindor table, than a small figure stumbled and struggled in through the doorway of the Great Hall, heading directly towards Neville – it was Harry!

Half-risen, Hermione froze, then sank back down again; if she were seen anywhere near him then she would be expelled, and he would suffer even more greatly without her. All chatter faded away as everyone's attention swivelled towards the broken child. Neville looked up, startled to see him approaching so directly. Despite Harry's weak voice, his first word was clearly heard in the silence that had blanketed the huge chamber:

"_run!"_

For several moments, nobody moved – Harry was drawing his wand – Neville's eyes were widening in alarm – gasps and cries obscured Harry's next whispered words:

"_avada kedavra._"

"What did he say?"

"Is he trying to prank Longbottom with sparks?"

And sparks there were! More than Harry had ever cast! Many-coloured, they drifted harmlessly away before he turned and fled, throwing away his wand as he did so.

"FIVE points from Hufflepuff for disturbing our meal!" cried McGonagall. "Potter, you will take your seat and eat your breakfast this minute!"

Harry swerved from his route towards the exit and sprinted to the Hufflepuff table where he began wolfing down food as fast as he was able. After half a minute his eyes were watering and his face was flushed with the exertion.

Hannah Abbott stared at Harry's table manners. He'd drank porridge directly from his bowl without pausing to breathe, and now he was stuffing toast into his mouth faster than he could swallow. She'd hoped a friendship might have formed between them, but the boy acted so strangely! Other Hufflepuffs kept their distance because she'd even spoken to him. There was even talk – cruelly within her hearing – that something more had taken place while she'd been alone with the naked youngster. Had she consented? Encouraged him? Had she even–

–She shook her head, and her pigtails swung, catching Harry's attention. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up – then shyly away just as quickly. He continued eating normally now. What was she to make of him? There was no forgetting the terrible scars on his body that she'd seen that day. Who had done that to him? Was that what had caused him to behave so oddly?

Hannah sniffled a little, then looked around furtively to see who might be watching, before quietly continuing with her own meal.

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The Sort-ofs

Harry Potter felt almost ill as he followed Hannah Abbot's pigtails towards the greenhouses for their Herbology class. As ordered by McGonagall, he'd tried in vain to consume all his breakfast in the space of one minute, and now his stomach was rebelling. From behind, a hand fell on his shoulder and he cringed in alarm.

"You dropped your wand, Harry." It was Neville.

Confused, and a little fearfully, Harry took it. "_uh – uh."_

"Nobody heard – but I heard," continued Neville. "Were you _intending_ to kill me or just bluffing? Why did you want me to run, Harry? Why scare me like that? I thought we were sort of... friends. I mean, you helped find Trevor on the train and... I help you a bit in Herbology."

Harry's jaw dropped, and he stopped walking. He was a sort of friend? A shiver of delight passed over him. Sometimes he'd pretended Hermione was his friend even though it made no sense. But a _sort of_ friend? Perhaps Hermione was a _sort of_ too! Perhaps freaks could have _sort–ofs!_

"Get a move on!" several Gryffindors jostled from behind. Up ahead, Hannah had slowed down too. Did she know Harry relied on her pigtails to guide him to classes?

Neville and Harry resumed their journey. Could he trust Neville with his biggest secret? Surely one could trust a _sort-of?_

"_meet seventh floor?"_

Neville blinked. "When?"

"_half past seven?"_

Neville nodded.

Hannah was looking back at them strangely. Had she heard? She was biting her lip which Harry knew meant worry. Was she a _sort-of_ too! Daringly, he moved forward and whispered in her ear...

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The Evil Baby

"_I solemnly swear I am up to no good._"

Harry smiled as the map drew itself upon his parchment. This was the one little bit of magic he was able to achieve repeatedly and he was proud of it. He tilted the sheet slightly so he could inspect it while remaining in the shadows. THREE figures were heading in his direction: one a Ravenclaw, one a Gryffindor, and one a Hufflepuff! And they might all be _sort-ofs!_

Neville was first round the corner, squinting towards the dark end of the corridor where Harry lurked. Hannah arrived almost immediately after, followed by Hermione. They all stared at one another, Hermione with a hurt, huffy expression of one who had been betrayed, Harry's one of seeking approval. Finally, she nodded.

Neville was quick to ask, "Why'd you try to kill me, Harry?"

"What!" Hannah's and Hermione's cries almost synchronised.

Hermione demanded, "Why'd you – no, wait... Harry, who ordered you to kill Neville?" She turned to explain to the other two. "He's been heavily conditioned to do as he's told; he can't help it."

"_me,_" said Harry, in a very tiny voice. "_I told me. I am the evil baby._"

Gaping, Hermione recovered first.

"We'd all better go inside."

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Saving Neville

Inside the Room of Requirement, Hermione waited a few moments, expecting more seats to appear. But nothing had changed except Harry's bed was now almost a foot out of the ground! She gestured to Hannah and Neville to sit at the little table while Harry perched on his bed. After only a short hesitation, Hermione joined him, glaring possessively at Hannah. The Hufflepuff bitch with her prim-but-flaunty pigtails might have seen Harry naked, but so had everyone else. And she'd seen him first! But what if–

"–_Hermione?"_ Harry said tentatively.

"Uuh... right. uumm... Harry had this dream, you see..." She described the nightmare as Harry had told it to her.

"_perhaps it's Mr Macnair haunting me ... heard him kill Hagrid with his wand ... except I'm the evil baby who wants to kill Neville. _"

Hermione shook her head. "In the dream, Harry. You're not really that... _thing._"

"He might be a seer," said Neville. "Gran says some people see the future in their dreams. What if Harry's nightmare foretold You-know-who might be reborn as an evil baby? Perhaps already has?"

Hannah shuddered. "Neville's right. We have to take it seriously." She'd spoken without thinking. She was talking with a group! And she'd said Neville's name aloud! And he a brave Gryffindor! Flushing, she chanced a glance sideways to try to see his expression. His profile showed nervous courage, his jaw was firm, and his eyes flashed with–

–Neville was nodding vigorously. "But what can we do? Gran might not want to know anything that..."

"...that Harry Potter said." Hermione nodded. "We understand, Neville. It's up to us."

From her bag she pulled out the book of Charms essays, she'd 'borrowed' from the reading room. A previous reader had torn out the 'do not remove' page so alleviating her guilt. "Ah, thought so... '_the Portus charm can bewitch any object to transport you to safety'_. But it's incredibly difficult... and totally illegal outside Ministry approval!" Her large teeth scraped worriedly over and over her lower lip.

"_but Neville might die, Hermione,_" urged Harry.

She continued chewing her lip. "I'll work on it. No promises. I think this is even beyond seventh-year level. Goodness, but if I could..."

Harry could see the challenge in her eyes, and knew she would succeed. His _sort-of_ friend could do anything. Anything!

They both felt the mattress rise up another inch.

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Little Progress

The months passed by more smoothly for Harry Potter. Hermione had ordered him to always eat as much as he wished at mealtimes no matter what anyone else said. Though continuing to be soft-spoken, he could now speak more often above a whisper, and his magic, despite remaining feeble, was improving. He could cast sparks, and even a faint light.

"Work on it, Harry," Hermione would urge him. "It'll grow brighter."

Nothing can lift a boy's heart more than the encouragement of a girl, and Harry would have done anything she wished even if it had not been a command. Yet Hermione had thrown herself into reckless extra study without progress. The Portus charm eluded her, and her endeavours into mental strengthening yielded only a few eccentric-sounding wizards and witches with ridiculous names who'd dabbled in the field: Ingrid The Incorrigible Dirigible, Ulthrax The Terrible, and Sally Mander who'd convinced herself she was an amphibian, and had been swallowed by a pike while attempting to swim beneath the still waters of a millpond.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly as she leaned back in her seat in the Ravenclaw common room. She never remained long here other than to give a show of doing homework. A wintry night sky glinted through the frosted windowpane, so she stood up, stretched her legs, and wandered over to take a look. Christmas was almost upon them, but there'd been no sign of snow. She shivered anyway – perhaps caused by the cold air sinking from the icy glass.

She looked around; other students were huddled in groups while she herself was isolated, as was normal unless someone was desperate for help with their prep – oh yes, _then_ they'd talk to her! The only Ravenclaw to speak freely to Hermione was a first-year with straggly blonde hair, but that girl's conversations were strange – though not reserved, even hostile, like so many others. _To think I actually wished to be in this House!_ She made a show of gathering up her library books then headed out. But it was not the library towards which she was headed.

"Anything yet?" said Neville, as they joined up, heading to the Room of Requirement.

She shook her head. "I'm beginning to think the school library has nothing practical about the Portus charm and I can hardly ask Professor Flitwick."

Neville frowned thoughtfully. "Gran will be serving on the Wizengamot over the holidays; I'll ask if I can go with her. The Ministry reference books are second to none."

Hermione stared after him as he entered the Room of Requirement ahead of her; Neville was becoming a very good friend indeed.

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—oOo—

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* * *

**Author's Notes**

_A guest reviewer pointed out that this fic is not really a parody (which is imitation, usually exaggerated for comic effect.) I've done more searching but I can't find any word for fiction that exaggerates but NOT for comic effect. Yes, there is light humour in my story but it's not fundamental. It's extreme yes, but the original Harry Potter books were already caricaturesque (Snape, Dursleys, etc.) I've just pushed it further. So I must leave it to others to define. It's serious exaggeration for interest and entertainment. _

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**– Hippothestrowl**

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	6. Lonely Christmas

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_So far... Broken by the Dursleys' extreme cruelty into obedience without question, the bewildered Harry Potter is further traumatised at Hogwarts. Only Hermione shows him kindness – though he's isolated in Hufflepuff. At the end of year one, she invites Harry home for summer, but, back at Hogwarts for year two, Dumbledore demands they keep apart. Now read on... _

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**Chapter 6**

**Lonely Christmas**

* * *

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Heart

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed. Motionless. Anxiety gnawed deep within. Finally she forced herself to look at the clock and saw she could no longer put off the regular secret meeting with Harry. With a choke of resignation, she pushed herself onto her feet and made herself walk to the seventh floor corridor.

There he stood, patiently waiting, fingers tracing her journey on his map. Never did he go into the Room of Requirement first if he knew she was also due. Hermione's heart sank: there was hope and anticipation in his eyes.

"Harry... I... let's go inside."

She couldn't look at him; he'd have sensed something was wrong.

They sat in a strained silence. Harry spoke first. "What's–"

"–I can't invite you for Christmas, Harry," she blurted out to the room without daring to face him. "I'm sorry. Dumbledore will be... I'm sure he'll be watching. We can't take the chance."

The tiniest movement at the edge of vision convinced her that his shoulders had drooped and he was slowly nodding his head in resignation. "_Hannah's going home too..._" he whispered sadly, and added a murmur that revealed his fear: "_... be ... alone..._"

Hermione's spirits were in one single moment lifted in delight and plunged in shame – shocked by her own reaction. Hannah had as much right to Harry's friendship as she had! _But imagine if she'd stayed! The two of them alone together here in Harry's den! His mattress and the sunken bed beneath it would likely lift right out of the pit and–_

"–She's been so nice to me..." he whimpered, and tried vainly to wipe tears from his eyes.

_That bimbo's done nowhere near as much as I have for you! I'm the one who's taken so much care of you! I'm the one who's–_

"–I wanted so m–much," sobbed Harry, "to b–buy her a really nice Christmas present b–but I only had enough for–"

–_Why should SHE get ANYTHING from you for Christmas! She's not your best–_

"–b–but I only had enough for you..." He held out a grubby little brown-paper packet, not much bigger than a flattened-out matchbox.

Guilt and shock ripped through Hermione's mind. Biting hard on her lower lip, she took the gift and examined the soiled wrapping with misty eyes and shaking hands...

"_sorry,_" sighed Harry in a tiny voice. "_been carrying it round since–_"

"–How... when? When could you have–"

"–Last summer, remember? When I was in Mr Flourish's cupboard I saw it."

Hermione drew in a deep breath. "Harry, you didn't...?"

"It's not actually _from_ the cupboard, but pictured in– I had two Galleons left so I uumm... was thinking of you– that you might like it, I mean!"

Hermione clenched her lips together tightly, fighting tears – but they spilt anyway. "Y–You, spent your last two G–Galleons on me? Oh, Harry..."

"But you've been so good to me, Hermione. And I want so much to be your..." At the last moment he lost his nerve and turned away, his voice falling to his usual frightened whisper. "_I want you to have it anyway._"

"Your _what_ Harry? You want to be my _what?"_

He mumbled something she could not clearly hear, but it might have been "Your _sort-of_."

The wrapper tore as her fingers jerked – silver flashed – Hermione gasped – she usually opened gifts very carefully but – she drew another quick breath – "It's beautiful."

What at first appeared to be a delicate cigarette case partly sheathed in pastel pink mooncalf had slid into her hand – yet its oval outline indicated something more feminine.

She gazed in astonished admiration. "Harry, this couldn't have cost only–" Words were forming on the soft surface:

_I open only for she who first touches my heart..._

Hermione held her breath; such a message to any thirteen-year-old girl naturally had a deep emotional impact. Harry was signalling for her to turn it over. She did so. The central emblem held two deep red teardrops inverted to form a heart shape, and with a trembling hand she placed the tip of her finger upon it. The case greatly expanded, quietly unfolding like the petals of a flower, to reveal perfumed parchment sheets tied with a bow, an exquisite notebook, a tiny, self-inking travel quill, an everlasting diary, and other stationery.

"This was in the store cupboard at Flourish's?"

"A moving photo in a catalogue. I had to give Mr Blott my two Galleons to order it."

"But this must have cost a fortune! As a deposit, you mean?"

"Once I signed, Mr Blott transferred the rest from my Gringotts account."

"Oh, Harry..." His words had pierced Hermione's emotions. Her eyes stung and she couldn't speak for a while.

Concerned, Harry asked in a very small voice, "_do you... do you like it, Hermione?"_

"It's wonderful..." sniffled Hermione. "I'll treasure it always."

Harry's face lit up. "And you'll look at it on Christmas day? And think of me? And pretend I made those lovely words? And I'm sorry I like Hannah a bit because it makes you sad, but I've tried not liking her, but can't, so I'll try harder I promise, though I wish I could have bought her a little something too, but I just had to get this for you, I just had to."

Tears of guilt flooded out as Hermione rushed to hold Harry tightly in her arms. Why did he never display any bitterness for the way life had treated him? For her own selfish unwillingness to share him with... "Hannah is a good person, Harry. Don't try to not like her just because of my stupidity."

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Lamb for Dinner

Through Fawkes' sharp eyes, Dumbledore gazed down from the sky with great satisfaction onto the platform at Hogsmeade Station. There'd been a light dusting of snow overnight but daylight had begun melting it. Abbott and Longbottom were boarding the train together, while Granger was trudging and splashing despondently through the thin grey slush towards them. There was no sign of Harry. Pomona had informed him that the boy was alone in the Hufflepuff common room, sniffling. Everything was as it should be. The boy had been broken more than was intended, but must remain that way so he could still be of some use.

The _malambience_ that Dumbledore had cast on the school would help significantly in that respect to target the contempt of the unthinking majority whose attitude had softened following the Daily Prophet's report of Harry's naked humiliation at the hands of Draco Malfoy. In addition, Abbott and Longbottom were increasingly preoccupied with each other, and the portrait of Merwyn the Malicious had informed him the girl was rather upset not to have received even a tiny Christmas gift from Harry. With Granger afraid of expulsion, the boy would remain totally isolated and utterly broken.

With a sigh of satisfaction, the great Headmaster withdrew from his familiar's gaze and leaned back in his chair, ruminating. The Dark Lord would surely turn to the only other possible challenger that might fulfil the prophecy: Longbottom. That boy would make a wonderful distracting lure while Harry – the only one Voldemort had actually marked as his equal – could now play his true part: the lamb had to be sacrificed on the altar of the Greater Good. It was the only way to save the magical community. The tragic loss of one or two children was clearly worth that. Like all outstanding generals, Dumbledore had to bravely shoulder his burden and remain firm. "If not me, then who?" he declared to his empty room. Neither the portraits nor the Sorting Hat answered, while the perch of his phoenix remained empty.

And yet he had to be more certain that Tom would definitely dismiss Harry as worthless and turn to Neville. A test was necessary...

From his desk drawer he pulled out a shabby black book. How fortunate he'd been able to stop Arthur Weasley from handing it in to the Department of Mysteries! This diary that Lucius Malfoy had placed in Ginny Weasley's cauldron was the key to Voldemort's immortality, and he was learning much from it. He dipped a quill into his inkpot, and, after careful thought, wrote in a different hand from the one he'd been using previously in the journal:

_My name is Harry Potter._

The blue ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, sank without trace. Dumbledore waited. At last, something happened. Oozing back out of the page, in the same blue ink, came the words:

_Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

These words, too, faded away, and Dumbledore intentionally paused before scribbling back in shaky script and causing several hurried blots as if he were trembling with fear. _I'm really sorry, Mr Riddle. I didn't know th– I mean– I saw it in the Headmaster's desk drawer and it looked like it wasn't ever being used. Please don't tell Professor Dumbledore._

Once the words had disappeared, Dumbledore patiently bided his time until Riddle responded. He did not have long to wait.

Letters formed before his eyes: _The Headmaster has told me everything – and especially about you, Harry Potter, that you are obedient and willing to please. Perhaps you would do something for me so that I can forgive your... indiscretion?_

_Yes, anything._

_Swear it._

_I swear._

_Then I demand you end the life of Neville Longbottom by any means at your disposal._

Dumbledore waited longer this time before writing... _I will._

This part of Tom's soul and Lord Voldemort were one and the same. If the fragment accepted Longbottom as its most risky foe, then so would the whole.

The day felt brighter. There was Christmas dinner to look forward to. The great man could begin winning Harry's trust. He still possessed the invisibility cloak left by the boy's father; there'd be no harm making it seem like a gift, and the grateful boy would never dare use it. Yes! Dash off a message full of tender affections, and the weakling youth's affiliation to Granger would yield and fade as rapidly as had the day's soggy snowflakes, then seduce the boy towards his own strong, reliably-bright forecast...

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Resolve

Harry Potter stared into the Hufflepuff fireplace, his face illuminated by the flickering flames. He would be brave for Hermione, he told himself, straightening his shoulders and wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. Nobody had specifically ordered him to attend dinner, nor had he received any other instructions as to how he should behave at Hogwarts over Christmas.

He stood up and gazed around the Hufflepuff common room – silent now except for the crackle of burning logs. He could provide himself with food from the kitchen elves and be much more comfortable and cosy in his own secret lair in the Room of Requirement. Yes, that was it! He could pretend Hermione and Hannah and Neville were with him more easily in his den of dreams. Nobody could be mean to him there; no one would be able to interrupt his reveries...

.

The Empty Seat

"Albus, perhaps we should begin without him?" said Professor McGonagall, as the aroma of several roast turkeys was causing her stomach to softly purr.

With a puzzled frown, Dumbledore broke of from staring at the parcel he'd carefully placed at the one empty place at the dinner table, and nodded disappointedly. "I thought he would come..." he muttered.

"Just because it's Christmas?" sneered Professor Snape, who had not hesitated to begin carving the succulent white meat with rapid slashes of his wand. "The boy is crushed but still insolent – when did he last eat in the Great Hall like civilised wizardry?"

He hacked venomously down suddenly, glaring around. "Who wants a leg?"

.

Needs Must

Harry wriggled his scrawny posterior around on his very own mattress to get as comfortable as possible. It was high enough now that he could sit cross-legged with his feet on the ground slightly below him. In his mind's eye, but out of his real eyesight, he pretended that Hermione was at the little table. He WOULD be brave for her. He MUST be brave for her one day if he was to reward her faith in him. He NEEDED to gain a mind and will of his own if–

–There was a brief but strong movement of air pulling him to look up. The two corners farthest from the entrance were angling away to make more space.

"GET UP, FREAK!"

Rising from the carpet on the right was an horrific, bloated apparition, waving a meaty fist that held a red-hot glowing fire poker.

"Unc–Uncle...?"

"STAND, I SAID!"

The boy jumped to his feet, shaking with fright, and whimpering, "_yes, sir. sorry, sir._ He clamped a hand over his mouth, fearful that he'd spoken too loudly.

But another figure in the opposite corner also lifted into view, and even before solidifying into a recognisable form, Hermione's voice uttered from within it, uttering shocking words he remembered from their previous school year: "Harry, you need to stand up to people. You don't _have_ to obey every little–"

"–ON ONE LEG!" cried the Vernon-figure.

Startled, Harry obliged by quickly lifting his left knee, and not too high. He knew from experience that this particular punishment was slightly easier standing on his _right_ leg.

"Oh, Harry..."

Shamed, he teetered, his left foot twitching down...

"HOW DARE YOU EVEN _THINK_ OF DISOBEYING ME, BOY!" The figure took a menacing step forward..

"_sorry, uncle..._" Harry quickly snapped his left leg higher.

The Hermione training dummy whispered, "_Practice resisting, Harry. Trust me._"

Slowly down went Harry's toe until it touched the ground – Vernon's eyes flared wide! – DOWN crashed the red-hot poker onto the floor – sparks flew – Harry's leg snapped back up again.

Continually the Hermione figure tried to encourage Harry, yet just as often he was threatened by the Vernon robot. Sweat stung Harry's eyes. His throat dried up. He collapsed but struggled up once more. And so it went on and on until the Room relented and gave Harry some rest. The Uncle Vernon effigy huffed and puffed back to its corner and became motionless – yet it did not disappear.

Shuffling on his knees, Harry approached the Hermione shape, looked up at its face in shame. The features were locked onto his in a gentle, supportive smile. Tension eased from his shoulders and he managed to stand. He'd never dared stare so closely at the real Hermione before. The soft brown eyes, delicate nose, the creamy complexion, all framed by a riot of bushy hair – every detail he could now examine and delight in as never before. Yes, _these_ eyes were lifeless, but the likeness to his '_sort of'_ was thrilling. He went back happily and collapsed onto his sunken bed, feeling a little higher than before. He could do this! He WOULD do this ... for Hermione!

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A Fairy Tale

Hermione Granger, completely unaware of Harry's efforts, yet always keeping him in her thoughts, reached upward to unpeg a sheet from the clothesline in the garden of her home.

"It's frozen, Mum! The sheet's frozen! Why didn't you use the dryer?"

Mrs Granger huffed air down her nose and frowned up at the bright grey sky. "I just like them having fresh air blowing through– what's that? Is it...?"

Hermione glanced in the direction her mother was pointing. "An owl ... biggish one too ... might be..."

The laundry left on the line for the moment, Hermione guided the owl out of the icy wind and into the garden shed with her. "Here, have some treats and get yourself warm before you return, owl."

She squinted at the little parcel clutched between its talons, her eyes still slightly dazzled by the white bedsheets she'd been facing. "It's from Neville, Mum!"

The wrapping tore as she scrabbled hurriedly to open the package. _Must be the book he promised on the..._ "Portus Charm!"

The words seems to hang in the air inside her steamy breath as she stared disappointedly at a children's picture book instead:

_Sinsstyrke!  
an heroic tale  
by  
Ulthrax Lindqvist _

Stroking through, it was evident that the black and white sketch images were crudely drawn, and the narrative and dialogue were amateurish and badly translated; this was pulp fiction that would only interest a seven-year-old boy. Her cold fingers almost dropped the graphic novel and a sheet of parchment slipped onto the dirt-scuffed floor of the shed.

"Hermione!" called Mrs Granger from outside.

"Coming, Mum!" The young girl squinted down: Neville's handwriting! She grabbed the message and ran to help her mother carry the laundry basket indoors.

Soon they were sitting down at the kitchen table sipping tea and munching hot crumpets.

"Christmas present?" asked Mrs Granger.

Hermione shook her head, still reading. "He thinks Harry might enjoy this comic but not sure why he's sent it to me if..." She lapsed into silence as she continued to read.

"Don't let your pikelet go cold," said Mrs Granger. "Raspberry jam...?"

"Uh–uh..." Hermione's hand groped blindly for her tea plate. Melted butter dripped from her fingers as she absently munched. Her mother passed over some kitchen paper...

"Wipe your mouth, dear."

"Mmm...?" The girl looked up without seeing.

Anne Granger sighed and went to stuff the damp laundry into the drier on her own; there was little chance of getting through to her daughter once she was absorbed in what she was reading...

For the third time, Hermione read through parts of Neville's message:

_...they called him dark and terrible so burnt all his books, but Gran says that's rubbish and that he helped a lot of people with emotional and mental problems become more confident in themselves. I suppose she was hoping for something hidden in this fairy tale might have survived. I don't think you know but my parents were utterly broken by Death Eaters during the last war. We used to read this to them but I'm not sure they understood._

_Anyway, why I really sent it was maybe Portus is the same? I mean, suppose the Ministry destroyed all references to that spell as well so they can keep it secret? Doesn't mean there might not have been documented elsewhere they've overlooked. What if there's something in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts? The Ministry might not know about that._

The Restricted Section! That Shrine to Knowledge! The holy of holies. But it might as well be in some far-off Buddhist temple because there was no way for a mere second-year neophyte to ever get in there. Her shoulders slumped. After a while she began reading Neville's letter again; there'd been something nagging for her attention in what he'd written but it eluded her quite irritatingly...

.

Special Delivery

Alone at Christmas, with all the other students away from Hogwarts, Harry never considered anyone might possibly enter his den, or he'd not have dared do what he was about to do...

"Can I see the Hermione _manquin_ again please?"

Harry waited.

Nothing happened.

He frowned, thinking hard about how the Room worked. "I NEED to see the Hermione _manquin._"

Nothing.

"I need to practise being encouraged by Hermione."

Softly the training dummy formed in its corner.

Harry's eyes brightened wide and he leapt from his mattress in a run. He braked abruptly, almost knocking over the practice model. As it steadied itself upright once more, Harry could see the figure was exactly his height, for their eyes were on the same level. He puffed himself up and gained an inch. She blinked. Harry jerked back; he'd forgotten how animated the 'statue' could be.

"You're doing very well, Harry, but you need to diminish your fear of Vernon," said the dummy. Its eyes were softly reassuring; the smile was gentle.

He stared, mouth falling open. As he tilted his head to examine the chin, so did the dummy. The bushy hair swayed away slightly from the side of her face revealing lovely curves and shapes inside her ear. He'd never been this close – not with his eyes open and able to truly study her face rather than glimpse nervously. Every eyelash on the model was distinct and – "Your eyes really are a lovely colour!" Never had he the nerve to stare so boldly at her features before. A great yearning possessed him to press his cheek against those red lips just for one moment of–

"–WHAT ARE YOU DOING, FREAK! GET OVER HERE!"

Harry head dropped meekly and he almost tripped over himself trying to turn so as to obey his uncle.

The Hermione model pleaded, "Harry, you must try not to react but think instead."

He stopped and tried really, really hard. The Vernon form was no more than a fake impression of his real uncle; surely he could...

With a monumental effort he dragged himself back to concentrate on the Hermione mannequin. He needed to focus on her. She gazed invitingly. He turned his cheek towards her smile. Surely if he leaned over to examine the wall it would not be _his_ fault if her lips brushed the side of his face? He held his breath and closed his eyes not daring to look. Closer and closer he–

–There was a girly squeak from the direction of the door! Harry did fall over then, finally clambering forward red-faced to see who it was.

"–is for Master Harry," piped up the voice from the door.

For a moment he could not think.

"Is parcel gift being left over from Chrissimas dinner by Old Whiskers professor."

Recognition came to Harry then; it was Plup, the littlest of the house-elves who so often bought him food. "_thank you..._" he whispered.

"Is nasty tracy-tracky magic strand ... fell out in Plup's fingers ..." The elf giggled guiltily as she held out a finger and thumb pinched together as if holding a wisp of nothing.

Puzzled, Harry felt for the thread, blinked rapidly when he found it to be real, then wondered what to do.

The Room met his need by forming an empty goldfish bowl upon the table. Harry dropped the invisible thread into it then turned to unwrap the parcel.

Something fluid and silvery grey went slithering to the floor, where it lay in gleaming folds.

Harry crouched down. "What is it?"

"Is cloak for not being seen," said Plup.

Tentatively, Harry lifted an edge of the shiny cloth off the floor. It was curious to the touch, like woven water, and some of the folds were completely transparent. Sometimes. Or perhaps they merely eluded his perception. Boldly grasping what seemed to be an entire edge, he whisked it fully over. Astonished, he lost his grip.

"Where'd it go?" And then... "Where'd the floor go?" For there appeared to be an irregular hole below which was absolutely nothing – not even the sixth floor which he knew should be below the Room of Requirement.

"Not being seen of course," frowned the elf, as if it were normal for some things to not be visible.

Harry felt for the material, picked it up, and flung it over the goldfish bowl, which promptly vanished along with most of the table. He laughed. This was fun. For quite a while. Then he became tired and went to sleep on his mattress.

The elf carefully hung the cloak inside out on a peg which had not been there before, and then departed. Instantaneously.

.

The Missing Clay

Dumbledore tapped five bony fingers irritably on his desktop. The boy must have sneaked down after dinner in the hope of leftovers and taken the parcel as he'd hoped. But where was he now? The Headmaster drew his wand and cast his tracing charm yet again, but more precisely this time...

Nothing.

Nothing?

It was impossible, unthinkable, that the pathetic child had discovered the invisible tracking thread he'd so cleverly woven into the cloak, and the boy was neither smart nor brave enough to have escaped the castle. The Forest was a possibility if the thread had accidentally torn on a thorny bush, and with Hagrid killed by Macnair, there's been no one to keep watch. Or could Potter have discovered an unplottable space within the castle walls? Surely not. The Chamber of Secrets had defied his own best efforts to find it. The Shrieking Shack was unlikely for such a crippled mind to have worked out how to get past the Whomping Willow – unless he'd received help. Mmm... he'd question the Weasley twins after the holiday.

Meanwhile... he continued to tap his desktop with increasing frustration. How could such helpless clay appear to be so... unmalleable!

.

—oOo—

.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_The invisibility cloak probably doesn't work like I've portrayed it here. Likely it only renders invisibility when worn by a living person and possibly then draped over a linked object (like a carried bag or perhaps a ridden broomstick?) Otherwise, as you walk along, wouldn't someone notice there's a moving hole in the floor? Been trying to think of any occurrence in the books where it's used to hide an object? Silly riddle you can pretend came out of your Christmas cracker: What has five eyes but can't be seen? That's not even funny so ignore it. Unless you have a lot of wine Christmas dinner. Even then. _

_Have a merry time anyway. I'll be posting another chapter of Muggle Power tomorrow (Thursday 10th December 2020) and then every eight days so the final Chapter 4 will be on Boxing Day I think. Or maybe I'll post it on Christmas day if I'm in the mood. _

_Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful._ :)

**– Hippothestrowl**

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